


A Poorly-Executed Kidnapping: Extended Edition

by HakeberHooligan



Series: His Wolves [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Let's Not Forget the Stiles-Shaped Space Between Peter and Derek, M/M, Multi, No Incest, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Threesome - M/M/M, Touch-Starved, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-11-29 02:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18217265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HakeberHooligan/pseuds/HakeberHooligan
Summary: The rest of the story! This takes place before and after the events of part one, A Poorly-Executed Kidnapping.Stiles is dealing with the aftermath of the Nogitsune. Peter and Derek become an unlikely source of support for him to lean on... And then some.





	1. Part of the Pack

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I feel like I've been working on this F O R E V E R, so I'm excited to finally post it. I'm going to target posting new chapters every two days, but it might be three in between some, depending on my schedule. But no more than that! With that said, enjoy : )
> 
> Oh! Just a quick few things that I changed from canon: Boyd, Allison, and Erica are still alive, Kira moves away after the Nogitsune, Jordan knows about werewolves, And the entire timeline has been pushed up a year, so they were juniors when Scott was bitten, not sophomores. I think that’s it ; )

 

_Three months ago_

     Stiles lets himself into the loft, closing the door behind him. He attempts to rub some heat back into his freezing hands, cupping them and blowing in between his thumbs. Even though it’s 40* outside, he only has a worn flannel over his T-shirt.

     Apparently it was bold of him to assume that the essential heating feature of his Jeep wouldn't shit the bed three minutes into his drive. For the remainder of the ten minutes it took to get to the loft, he had cranked it, hoping _something_ would happen, but it just stubbornly spit out freezing air. By the time he steps into the loft, tremors are wracking his body, and his teeth are clacking.

     “De-De-Derek?” He calls out, looking down the short hallway that leads to the living room. He knows that he’s home, otherwise the door would have been locked.

     Derek’s finally admitted that he has room for improvement. He’s working on being a better, more accessible Alpha. Which Stiles thinks is great. God knows this ragtag group of teenage werewolves could use a proper papa wolf. Usually though, he’d be waiting at the door by the time Stiles let himself in. Werewolf hearing and all that jazz.

     “He’s not home.” Peter’s voice calls from the living room.

_Damnit._

     His dad’s working the night shift, and Scott is busy with Allison. Stiles was kind of hoping he’d be able to hang out for a bit, get out of his own head. His nights are long, and they’re even longer when he’s alone.

     Stiles walks down the hallway, trying to control his shaking. The loft is in the middle of a complete renovation, and he has to sidestep piles of wood, bricks, and various tools. He finds Peter lounging on the couch, his feet kicked up on the coffee table. He’s in relaxed pajama bottoms and a tight shirt with a ridiculously low V-neck. Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes. Even sitting home alone, the guy has to show off his assets. He’s holding a mug of what looks to be hot tea in his hands, and the tv is on but paused.

     Peter lifts an eyebrow in question.

     “Oh!” He doesn’t even realize that he’s been standing there, shivering and staring. He drops the book bag that’s slung over his shoulder and reaches into it, pulling out an old tome.

     “Ju-just returning this.” He says as another tremor violently runs through his body. He groans internally. Peter _already_ takes stabs at his vulnerability, at the fact that he’s a ‘weak human’, and this is going to give him fuel for weeks.

     Stiles puts the book down on the coffee table and stares wistfully at the mug of tea in Peter’s hands. He isn’t too keen on having to run right back out in the almost-freezing weather, but he really thought Derek would be here. Hanging out with Peter? The guy can barely stand him, and vice versa.

     “Um... I guess I’ll just be going then?” It comes out as a question.

     Peter sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes.

     “You’re going to catch pneumonia, Stiles. Honestly, you’d think a lifetime of being human would teach you how to take care of yourself.” He puts his mug down on the coffee table, and grabs the throw blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch. He tosses it at Stiles, who flails as he catches it. “Sit. Warm up.”

     Stiles stands there with a bundle of warm blanket in his arms, and debates telling him to shove it. But it’s _so_ cold outside, and when he turns to the tv, he sees the paused screen. It’s the opening clip they use for marvel films.

     Welp, that’s that then.

     “You’re watching a Marvel movie?” He says with interest, making his way to the couch. He hadn’t pegged Peter for the superhero type.

     “The new Avengers one. With Thanos.” Peter says, making an off-handed gesture. He catches Stiles’ pointed look at his tea. Stiles looks up at him with a pout on his face. _Might as well milk the situation for all it’s worth._ Once again, Peter sighs, this time over-dramatically.

     “I’ll get you some tea.” He says, rising from the couch and walking over to the kitchen.

     “Lemon ginger, please!” Stiles calls after him, wriggling his body into a more comfortable position on the loveseat. Derek has refused to buy decent furniture until he was done remodeling, and this is the best they have. It’s worn-in and soft though, and Stiles thinks it’s pretty decent, as far as second-hand couches go

     He ends up pressed deep into the cushions, and puts his feet up in front of him after toeing off his shoes. He wraps the blanket around his knees, properly cocooned.

     He wasn’t weird for hanging out with Peter, right? Peter certainly had his asshole moments, but Stiles wasn’t perfect, either. He had been the one to suggest setting him on fire, after Peter had already been nearly killed by the same element. In hindsight, it had been extremely cruel, even if Peter was a rampaging monster.

     But when Lydia had brought him back to life, it was as if that rotten, festering part of him hellbent on revenge had stayed dead. He’d been playing nice with the pack for the last year, and he was actually starting to grow on Stiles. Not that he’d admit it out loud, of course. But Peter is one of the few people who can keep up with his sarcasm, wit, and quick mind. Derek also feels comfortable enough around Peter to have let him move into the loft, so there was that.

     Peter returns a minute later with the tea, and Stiles makes grabby hands for it. He hums in contentment when the warm ceramic touches his hands, and holds it close to his chest, feeling the heat deep into his cold body. Peter sits back down, presses start, and settles back onto his side of the couch without a word.

     Stiles talks throughout the whole movie, but Peter doesn’t shush him or snap at him once. He actually engages him in conversation, and knows a surprising amount about the characters, their background stories, and accomplishments. Stiles has an inkling that he’s a closet superhero fan. After about half an hour, Stiles sheds the blanket and props his feet up next to Peter’s on the coffee table.

     It’s surprisingly easy to hang out with him, Stiles thinks. He’s always thought of Peter as a creeper wolf. Sticking to the fringe, waiting for the situation to profit him before stepping forward and lending his support. But now, talking to him in a relaxed setting, without an impending threat looming above them, he’s starting to see Peter for who he is as a person.

     Most of their conversations have been posturing and argumentative, with clever insults laced in for show. Not many people could match or exceed Stiles when it came to snarky eloquence, and he’s always had a sort of respect for that aspect of Peter.

     Something gently hits his thigh and he jumps, snapping his head forward. Oh. He had fallen asleep. The tv is on silent and back to the DVD menu. The digital clock on the cable box tells him that it’s nearly 2am. Shit. He looks over and sees that Peter is likewise passed out. His hand is against Stiles’ thigh, palm up. It must have slipped off of his leg and bumped Stiles’, waking him up.

     Stiles also notices that their feet are touching, leaning against each other. Peter moves his up and down, brushing his foot against Stiles’. He mutters something unintelligible in his sleep, and lets out a content _hmm._

     Welp, this got awkward fast.

     Stiles counts his fingers, just to be sure, then quietly puts his shoes back on before getting up to head home. He hesitates and turns back, grabbing the throw blanket and straightening it out over Peter. _Then_ he leaves.

     - - -

     Several days later, Derek calls a meeting at the loft. Stiles is nervous at first. He hasn’t seen Peter since that night, and thinks it will be awkward. Mostly because Peter is still a dick, rehabilitated or not. He sucks it up though, because he doesn’t want to miss the meeting. There’s usually food.

     Surprisingly, Peter doesn’t mention it. When stiles walks through the door, he gets a nod in greeting, and that’s it.

     “So what’s going on? Why do we all have to be here? It’s Saturday and I’ve got plans,” Jackson complains. Stiles seriously wonders if Derek had been temporarily insane when he’d bitten Jackson. Not even considering the whole Kanima debacle, the dude is already more trouble than he’s worth.

     “Cancel them.” Derek says shortly. “You’re all spending the weekend helping me remodel.” Everyone starts protesting. Peter just stands with his arms crossed, leaning against an exposed beam, with a smug smile on his face that Stiles wants to slap off.

     “Good. And then you can come clean my room when we’re done.” Stiles snarks. “Are you for real? We’re not free help.”

     Derek crosses his arms and gives him a hard look. “This is our base of operations. Where we hold our pack meetings. For lack of a better word, it’s the community den. So you’re all going to pitch in. Also, I’m your Alpha.” He shrugs with the last part, as if that settles it.

     Stiles knows arguing is a lost cause, so he tries a different tactic to get out of as much work as possible. “Well I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet. Does anyone want coffee? I’m going on a run.”

     He types their orders into his phone and heads out the door. On the way, he kifes Derek’s wallet. Free labor his ass. Derek can treat them all.

     “He’ll need help carrying everything.” Peter says, pushing off of the beam and slipping out with Stiles before Derek has time to protest. Peter slides the door shut behind them, and turns to Stiles, who’s standing there with a blank look. He flashes a smile that shows a little too much teeth.

     “Shall we?”

     Stiles is uncharacteristically silent as they ride the elevator down and get into the Jeep. Once the doors are closed, Peter releases a signature dramatic sigh. Stiles tenses for whatever’s coming.

     “I’m just going to say it,” Peter says, giving Stiles a sideways look and pausing for effect:

     “Thanos did nothing wrong.”

     Stiles is so completely thrown, but also so relieved at the same time, that he can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes him.

     “You _would_ think that, you complete sociopath.” And just like that, the tension is broken.

     They talk about the movie all the way to the coffee shop, while waiting for their food, and all the way back to the loft. Stiles is once again impressed by Peter’s knowledge, and the intelligence in his theories behind why the characters behave the way they do. He says that he relates the most to Loki _(“Of course you do, so misunderstood,”_ Stiles had jibed), and that Stiles is obviously Spider-Man (He accepts that as the compliment it is). By the time they step into the loft, food and drinks in hand, Stiles feels relaxed and happy. Like, happier than he’s felt in a while.

     These past two years, it’s seemed like one thing after another. Scott was turned, then him and Stiles had to figure out this whole werewolf thing on their own, for the most part. Derek had been _extremely_ non-communicative, which led them to believing he was some sort of serial killer. Honestly, their lives would have been so much easier if Derek didn’t assume that everyone spoke ‘my expressive eyebrows’.

     And then there was the ‘killing Peter’ business, with the sequel, ‘Jackson is a Kanima being controlled by a psychopath’ thing, followed by the stunning conclusion, ‘Jackson is a kanima controlled by an elderly psychopath’.

     And that was only sophomore year.

     Junior year had been filled with alphas, darachs, and then that lovely little sidequest of Stiles being possessed by an evil fox spirit, which resulted in him being trapped in his head, torturing his friends, and almost murdering Allison.

     Things have been surprisingly quiet these last few months, and it’s the worst timing. Stiles would love nothing more than to be able to throw himself wholeheartedly into fighting a Big Bad, but instead he’s stuck with mundane tasks, such as school and lacrosse. It gives him far too much time to ponder what happened last fall.

     It’s not as if he’s _broken_ or anything like that, but he’d been invaded, in mind, body, and soul. Ridden like a carnival pony until the Nogitsune had finally let itself be known and taken control. Then to top it all off, he had been _regurgitated,_ and he still can’t even begin to wrap his mind around that. He had been forced out of his own mouth, and then crawled out of the floorboards, wrapped in gauze. It still fucks with him when he thinks about it.

     He doesn’t have memories of it, necessarily. As far as the actual event went, he had slowly become aware, finding himself pinned to the couch by Scott and Peter, thrashing and screaming. He was out, he was free, he was _him,_ but he was still trapped somehow. It was only after Scott had pulled away the bandages that he realized the sensation of being trapped was nothing more that strips of gauze, wound tightly around his face and hands.

     He has dreams though, where his body feels compressed. It’s not painful exactly, but highly uncomfortable, and he can’t breathe. It feels like he’s being shoved through a hole only slightly too small for his body to fit through, and he has to claw and dig his way out of it. In some, Scott never takes the time to remove the gauze, opting to rip his throat out with sharp claws instead. In others, fingers close around his ankles when he’s almost out, dragging him back into the floor, and he’s enveloped in crushing darkness.

     When the Nogitsune had been defeated, everything went back to normal. Kira moved away and Scott and Allison got back together. Stiles doesn’t want to say anything, but there’s _something_ going between the two of them and Isaac. He’s been resolutely _not_ inspecting that closer. Lydia is learning more about her abilities every day, and her and Jackson have never been stronger as a couple. The twins left, branching out on their own.

     And everyone assumed that Stiles had moved on too. But he hadn’t. He was still counting his fingers several times a day. Sometimes, he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. It’s more of a nervous tick that’s ingrained in him now. If something starts to feel too good, or strange, or easy, he compulsively has to count those digits and make sure there are ten.

     There are always ten.

     It doesn’t really help to ease his mind, though. He knows that the Nogitsune is gone. He knows that it’s only him in his mind. He _knows_ these things, but that paranoid little voice in his head doesn’t care. He’s pretty sure he has PTSD, but what certified therapist is there to talk to? So he just keeps it to himself and carries on. And if he only gets two or three hours of sleep on the nights he’s alone, so be it.

     After everyone takes twenty minutes to eat and enjoy their coffee, Derek is barking orders, assigning people tasks and what needs to be done. Stiles doesn’t know shit about renovating, but he’s certainly game for knocking down a few brick walls.

     He pulls on a pair of gloves to protect his palms. When pick up the sledgehammer, Jackson scoffs loudly.

     “Shouldn’t you let someone with _strength_ knock down those bricks? You should be over with the girls doing more _delicate_ work.”

     “Hey!” Erica growls, offended. Stiles ignores her. He’s having a good day, and he’s not going to let Richie-Rich here ruin it. He hefts the hammer and gives it a twirl before  resting it on his shoulder.

     “I could always knock down that fat brick that rests on your shoulders.”

     Peter snorts and Jackson growls, taking a step forward.

     “Jackson!” Derek snaps. “Get your ass over here and help me with the beams.”

     Jackson throws one last sneer Stiles’ way and saunters over to Derek. He probably thinks he's been ‘chosen’ because the Alpha wants his help. Stiles throws a smirk over to Peter, who shakes his head and chuckles.

     He shrugs the hammer off his shoulder, and takes a swing at the wall. When it connects, the impact travels up the handle and through his body. It’s uncomfortable, so he adjusts his grip and fixes his stance. When he swings again, he’s prepared for the impact. It’s easier the second time.

     And so he works on the wall, falling into a grueling rhythm. _Swing. Hit. Realign. Swing. Hit. Realign._ It’s almost cathartic, and it’s not long before a sheen of sweat covers his face.

     Scott in next to him, making much quicker work, his hole three times the size of Stiles. Then he swings the sledgehammer too hard, and snaps the head right off the handle.

     “Guess its a human’s job after all.” Stiles quips, chest heaving. His T-shirt is hot, and it clings to his body uncomfortably. He glances at Derek and Boyd, who lost their shirts half an hour ago. Of course, they’re unfairly ripped. Erica and Allison have taken off their shirts too, and are wearing sports bras. Scott is in the process of peeling his own off. Peter, who’s barely lifted a finger all morning and delegated himself as construction management, removed his shirt before anyone else had even started the physical labor aspect of the remodeling.

     “This shirt is worth more than any of your entire outfits. I’m not ruining it,” he had said casually. Which, Stiles still finds to be total bullshit, because he knows for a fact that Peter has a pile of blood-stained clothes that he specifically uses for messy jobs.

     Stiles used to be stringy and gangly, all limbs with little muscle. But since this whole werewolf thing started, he’s been working more on his body. He’s not as modest as he used to be, but he’s definitely not ripped like these guys. It pisses him off a bit that werewolves don’t seem to have to do much upkeep to stay cut. Their metabolisms are so fast, they can eat whatever they want, workout a few hours a week, and that’s that. Stiles, however, has to _actually_ work for results.

     Fuck it. He’s hot, and since the Nogitsune he’s developed a ‘screw what you think’ attitude. He crosses his arms, grabs the bottom hem of his shirt, and lifts it up and off of him. He uses it to wipe the sweat and dust off of his face, then tosses it to a nearby corner. He looks up and catches Lydia giving him an appreciative once-over.

     Jackson sees it too.

     “Seriously, Lyds?”

     “What? I can enjoy a view all I want.” She sniffs. Stiles laughs.

     “Enjoy it all you want, darlin’.” He shoots her a wink, grabs his hammer, and gets back to work.

     A year ago, that sort of attention would have left him sputtering and elated. Now, he’s kind of over it. Lydia’s a great friend and all, but he’s begun to realize that he’d built her up so much in his head, that she could never live up to the fantasy. But he’s fine with it. What he’s left with is an amazing friend who isn’t afraid to be straight with him. It’s a friendship that he treasures.

     He’s slams away for another thirty minutes, and his hole is now the same size as Scott’s. He’s breathing hard and his arms are shaking. He feels spent, but it had felt really good to go mindless for a bit and focus himself on something physical.

     He slumps down against what remains of the wall, props his elbows on his knees,  and lets his head fall forward, waiting for his heart rate and breathing to steady. A bottle of water enters his vision.

     “Thanks.” He rasps, grabbing it and downing most of it in one go. What he doesn’t drink, he pours over his head.

     He finally looks up and sees that Peter is the one that handed him the water. He still looks immaculate.

     “What have _you_ been doing the entire time?” He asks, clutching a cramp in his side.

     “Observing. Overseeing. Shirking the dirty work.” He supplies cheerfully without shame. Stiles snorts. Peter smiles and walks away, going back to wherever he’s been hiding from Derek’s dictating. _At least he’s not lying to himself,_ Stiles thinks.

     He rests for ten more minutes and gets back to work. He pushes himself, enjoying the feeling of strain and ache that works its way through his muscles. More than anything, pain reminds him that he’s here, awake, in this moment.

     Pain grounds him more than counting his fingers does. Being trapped in his mind had been akin to a dream state. Anything he felt had been distorted. Of course, he hadn’t realized it at the time, but it’s good information to have, for future reference. He’s not about to start cutting, or injuring himself just to feel alive, but things like this, constructive pain, he can get behind that.

     When the sun starts to set, Derek calls it quits and orders pizza. Stiles has worked on the wall all afternoon, and it's nearly gone. There’s small piles of brick and debris all along what used to be the wall that separated the living room from an extra spare room. He sits heavily on the couch before anyone else has a chance to snag a seat.

     “Oh, cry me a river.” He snarks when the complaints start. “You all have werewolf healing. The humans can have the comfy couch after a long day of physical labor.” He scoots over enough for Lydia and Allison to fit.

     They gorge themselves on pizza, and watch Jeopardy. They yell out answers, argue, and gang up on each other.

     It’s the best.

     Stiles loves this. He’d always wanted a big family, but it’s just him and his dad. The pack, they feel like extended family. Even Jackson, though Stiles would like to think of him as the snobbish stepbrother that you only grudgingly love.

     Before long, Stiles finds himself nodding off. He’s dead tired after the effort he put in today, and his whole body aches. He tilts his head back and listens to the fond bickering amongst his friends. His _pack._

     - - -

     Someone is gently shaking his shoulder.

     “Stiles.”

     “Whoz’er!?” He startles. Then he hisses in pain as his cramped muscles protest the quick movement. Derek is leaning over him, hand on his shoulder, wearing a frown.

     “I knew you pushed yourself too hard today.” He says, standing straight and crossing his arms.

     “S’okay. Needed it.” Stiles mumbles, dragging a hand over his face and groaning. Even that hurts to do. The loft is too quiet. “Where’s everyone else?”

     “They left.” Peter says from right next to him.

     “Ah!” Stiles jumps again. It hurts just as much as the first one. “Warn a guy before you sneak up on him!”

     Peter’s lounging with his back against the armrest, one leg bent in front of him on the seat. He has a book in his hands. He takes the time to roll his eyes as closes his his book and rest his hands neatly on top.

     “I’ve been sitting here for the last hour, you twat.”

     “That’s an awfully lowbrow word for you, Peter.” Stiles jibes, crinkles his nose and turning to look at the clock on the cable box. _11:17pm._

     “How long have I been out for? When did everyone leave?”

     “You nodded off around nine. Everyone else left shortly after.” Derek supplies. “No one wanted to wake you, and I don’t mind you spending the night, but I expected you would have woken by now. I was worried that you pushed yourself too far today and, I don’t know, hurt your brain or something.”

     Stiles laughs. It hurts his whole chest, but it’s worth it.

     “Dude, do you know _anything_ about human health? I didn’t hit my head or something. Overusing my muscles isn’t going to make me comatose.”

     Derek shrugs and makes an ‘I don’t know’ sound.

     “Well, do you want me to…” Derek holds out his hand to rest it on Stiles’ shoulder.

     “Huh? Oh. Nah, I’ll be fine.” He tries to stand up, and has to sit back down because of the sharp aches that bloom in his chest, back, and shoulders.

     Peter tuts and sighs.

     “Stiles, you’re being simply ridiculous.”

     He puts his book on the coffee table, then leans forward to grasp the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles starts to protest.

     “Peter, I said- _hnngh,”_ , his argument flies out of his head and he relaxes into the touch as his aches and pains slowly seep out of him. He releases a shaky breath and closes his eyes.

     “Asshole.” He murmurs, but there’s no venom in the word. Peter’s fingers slightly dig into his skin, and then he releases him. He slightly mourns the loss of warm contact.

     “Well, you’re free to stay here the night if you want to. Isaac’s old room has fresh sheets.” Derek says.

     Stiles cracks open a tired eye.

     “It’s fine. I don’t want to be an imposition.”

     “Stiles, you’re pack. You aren’t an imposition.” The way Derek says it, Stiles is inclined to believe him.

     “Thanks, man.” The side of his mouth twitches up in a smile. His body is still tight, but at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. He hoists himself off the couch trudges up the staircase to the spare bathroom, grabbing his backpack on the way. There’s a set of clean clothes in there. He tries to keep an extra outfit on him at all times. He’s been stuck in torn, bloody clothes more than he’d like. He takes a quick shower, rinsing off the grime and sweat of the day.

     He wraps a towel around his waist and shuffles into Isaac's old room, fighting a huge yawn. All he has energy to put on is his boxers, and once they’re up he falls face-first on the bed and groans. Before nodding back off, he leans over the bed to grab his phone  out of his bag, and shoots his dad a quick text:

_Late pack night. Sleeping at the loft._

     His phone dings almost immediately.

_Okay. Looks like I’ll be pulling a double again, so I won’t be home until close to noon tomorrow. Love you kiddo._

     With his last waking thoughts, Stiles feels a pang of pity for his dad. The station is going to work him into an early grave. He pulls the sheets over himself and drifts off.

     - - -

     Stiles is rudely awoken the next morning by a helpful ray of sunshine beaming directly in his eye.

     “Go away.” He spits at the sun. It’s so obviously out to get him, it isn’t even funny.

     He sits up, and that’s an effort in itself. His pain is centered in his upper body - chest, back, arms - but his abs and legs are feeling it too. What he needs, is coffee. His whole body sings when he puts his weight on his feet, and he takes a full thirty seconds to stand straight, his tight muscles protesting the movement.

     His mind feels several paces behind his body as makes his way down the stairs, very slowly and painfully. He heads into the kitchen, Peter is already there, sitting at the kitchen island. He’s sipping on a cup of coffee, and reading the paper. He looks up at Stiles and sputters into his cup.

     “I know,” Stiles says, voice strained still laced with sleep, eyes barely open. “M’a sight to behold ‘n the mornin’.” He sidles up to Peter, grabs his free hand, and presses it to his chest. “Do me.”

     “What the hell is going on?” Derek growls from the top of the stairs.

     “I didn’t do anything!” Peter says quickly, snatching his hand away.

     “What’s everyone’s deal this morning. I just want to feel _good.”_ Stiles whines. He hurts, he’s still tired, his brain feels fuzzy, and he just needs some werewolf mojo to get him going. He drops his head on Peter’s shoulder and leans in slightly.

     That’s when he feels his _very erect dick_ poke Peter in the hip. Peter’s face turns red and he coughs.

     “Oh god.” Stiles jumps back fast, and looks down to see a very prominent tent in his boxers. At least it wasn’t sticking out of the hole. Thank god for small mercies.

     “I’m just gonna-” he grabs his crotch with both hands and takes off up the stairs. Derek moves to the side with a mumbled _‘sorry’,_ and Stiles runs by him and slams the spare bedroom door behind him.

     He leans against the door and grits his teeth at the throbbing pain the short run to the room had caused his body. He holds his hands out in front of him, willing there to be an odd number of fingers. Nope, there’s ten. He silently curses, sinking to the ground,  then stares angrily at his penis, which has stubbornly stayed hard the entire time.

     “You’re a dick.” He says to it. It bobs in agreement.

     He drops his head against the door and squeezes his eyes shut. Okay, it isn’t _really_ that bad, right? They all have dicks, they understand how morning wood works. He would have _noticed,_ except his body was so sore from yesterday. That was the only thing on his mind, blocking out any other sensation.

     He has to come out eventually. He can hear them moving around downstairs, and murmurs of conversation, but he hasn’t heard any laughing. They’d seemed just as embarrassed and shocked  as him.

     Okay. He can do this.

     He waits another minute for his traitorous appendage to get with the program, and then he takes a deep breath. Which of course makes his chest feel like it’s ripping in two. He gets up off the floor with some difficulty, and then hobbles over to his clean sweatpants and T-shirt. The sweats are manageable, but the shirt is a lost cause. At least he tried.

     So he’s going back downstairs, in just his sweatpants. Whatever. No big deal. It’s not like he had boobs.

     He takes one more second to steel himself, then opens the door and walks down the stairs as confidently as he can, what with his aching back and chest and arms and legs and previous minutes of the morning.

     Peter is where he was before, coffee and paper in hand, and Derek is at the stove cooking up eggs and sausage. Peter looks up and gives him an encouraging smile. Derek keeps his eyes on the eggs.

     “Penises, amiright?” Stiles blurts. _God motherfucking damn it. Why am I like this?,_ he silently pleads. But Peter snorts, and Stiles can see Derek’s shoulders slightly shaking in what he assumes is withheld laughter, so he counts it as a win.

     He gingerly eases himself onto the bar stool to Peter’s left. Peter gives his signature dramatic sigh, putting down his coffee and folding his paper.

     “Humans. So breakable and easily damaged, yet so eager to prove that they can bust down a brick wall in one afternoon.”

     “Don’t pretend like you weren’t totally impressed with my wrecking ball skills. And I was ten times hotter than Miley swinging around that hammer.”

     Peter manages a slightly confused yet condescending face, and slides off his seat. He grabs the bottle of olive oil off the counter and moves to stand behind Stiles.

     “Elbows on the counter, and lean your head forward.” Stiles doesn’t even ask. He does as he’s told, ready for some supernatural Vicodin.

     Peter places a palm on Stiles shoulder, and the pain starts slowly receding.

     Stiles groans in appreciation, feeling his shoulders relax. Peter isn’t done though. He feels the oil pour on his back, and the sensation sends an involuntary shiver down his spine. Peter moves both hands through the oil, spreading to across Stiles’ shoulders and back.

     He works his thumbs in circles, pressing down firmly and working through all of the knots. Stiles hums in appreciation and puts his head on the counter, enjoying the impromptu back rub.

     By the time a plate of food is placed next to him, he feels ten times better. His back is relaxed, and the aches spread throughout the rest of his body are numb. Peter gives him one final pat on the back, and then goes to the sink to clean his hands.

     Stiles arches his back, and rolls his neck left and right. His muscles are loose, and his craving for some skin-to-skin is satiated.

     “Thanks, man.” He says to Peter when the man sits back down next to him, pulling his own plate forward.

     “Not a problem. It’s not often I get to showcase my amazing massaging abilities,” He replies with a wink.

     Derek sits on Stiles’ right with his own plate and digs in. Peter follows suit. Stiles stabs a sausage and takes a big bite.

     “Nngh.” He moans around the food as he chews. “What _is_ this? It’s something else.”

     “Deer sausage with wild boar.” Derek says with a side smile. “Cooked in farm fresh butter. Processed food is okay when I’m ordering in, but if I’m cooking, I like the real stuff.”

     “Well color me impressed. It’s fucking amazing.” He shovels in another mouthful, smacking his lips happily.

     After breakfast, he’s put out. He had already been tired when he woke up, and now with a full belly, the sun coming through the windows heating his skin, and the back rub Peter had given him, he was ready for a mid morning nap.

     The werewolves seemed to be of the same mind, at least in the lazy morning aspect. Stiles goes upstairs to use the bathroom, and is able to put on his T-shirt with ease. When he comes back downstairs, they’re both sitting on the couch. Well, Stiles isn’t about to sit on the floor.

     He walks over and tosses himself down across their laps. He gets a satisfying _oof_ from both of them, and Derek actually growls in surprise. His head sits on the armrest, his chest on Derek’s lap, his hips on Peter’s lap, and his legs stick out to rest on the side table.

     “What? You said yourself that touching between packmates is instrumental in forming solid pack bonds, and I’m not sitting on the floor.” He wriggles to get comfy. He can hear Peter sighs in exasperation. “So, what’re we watching?”

     Derek rolls his eyes, resigned, and flicks through the channels.

_"Ooo,_ Supernatural!” Stiles exclaims when he sees the opening graphic pop up on the screen. “And it’s The French Mistake! Ha, _yes!”_

     The wolves give in to him, and they settle in to watch the episode. Stiles nods off about twenty minutes in. At some point in his dozing haze, his body starts to ache again. He’s thinks he might be twitching and making little noises of discomfort, but it could also be his mind distorting reality while it teeters between sleep and awake. He feels a hand tuck itself into his hair, and his aches begin to dissipate. Another hand snakes under his shirt to rest on his back, and his body is deliciously numb again.

     He hums in contentment and starts tipping back over the edge to sleep.

     “What are we doing, Peter?” Derek asks quietly.

     “Us? What is _he_ doing?” Peter retorts. The thumb resting on his back slowly rubs back and forth, and soon after the fingers in his hair gently scritch his scalp.

     He wouldn’t call himself touch-starved, but other than the occasional hug or hair-ruffle from his dad, he doesn’t get that much skin-to-skin contact. Before this whole werewolf thing started, he and Scott would share a bed for sleepovers, and it was nice, in a platonic snuggles sort of way. But then he’d been bitten, and Allison had happened, and that was the end of that.

     So this? It was nice. He feels cherished. Safe. Happy. Stiles feels like he should count his fingers, but he’s so relaxed, and so close to sleep, it has to be a dream anyways. He’s not about to shatter the illusion.


	2. When The Shit *Really* Hits the Fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I just wanted to give a huge shout out to my beta [Curlidee13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlidee13) Hi Mom! 😂

_      Present day _

     Stiles slowly rises to consciousness at the smell of bacon. He stretches out his residual aches in the morning sun that filters through the windows. Derek is spooning him, an arm slung over his chest, and he’s a warm wall of muscle against Stiles’ back. His front is cool in contrast, and he cracks open an eye to see that Peter isn’t in bed. Which makes sense, because bacon. 

     Stiles leans into him and swivels his hips. Derek responds by moaning in his sleep and tugs him in closer, burying his nose in Stiles’ nape and lazily thrusting his morning wood against his ass. He pats Derek’s arm.

     “M’ getting up, Sourwolf.” He says with a wide yawn. Derek tightens his grip for a second, and Stiles immediately feels looser, the aches fading away into the background. Derek relaxes his arm.

     “Gimme a few minutes.” He mumbles. Stiles lifts up Derek’s hand, gives it a kiss, and then rolls out from under his arm. He stands and walks to the bathroom. 

     When he gets there, he catches sight of himself in the large mirror. The left side of his jaw is bruised a dark red, and his split lip looks like it had cracked overnight. There’s dried blood in the cut. He moves his jaw around slowly, and finds that it’s stiff, but doesn’t make any sort of clicking or cracking sounds. That’s good. 

     He lifts a hand to prod at his lip, and sees deep bruises that circle his wrists.  _ Shit.  _ These are impossible to hide, and they’re going to be ever more difficult to explain. He probably shouldn’t have let Derek sap his pain. He doesn’t have a proper read on how bad his injuries are. At least he knows that nothing is too badly damaged, because he would have felt it when he woke up.

     He inspects the rest of his body, but doesn’t find any other cuts, scratches, or bruises outside of where his wolves have marked him. 

     After using the bathroom, he goes to the dresser and pulls out a pair of Derek’s sweatpants, and one of Peter’s T-shirts. He grins to himself. It drives them crazy to see and smell him in their clothes. Derek is still passed out on the bed, looking like a Greek God in the morning sun.

     He walks down the spiral staircase, and heads into the kitchen. Peter is standing over the stove, adding shredded cheese to the eggs he’s scrambling. There’s bacon and sausage resting on a paper towel, and the hash browns look like they’re nearly done. He’s shirtless, with loose, light grey pajama bottoms. 

     Stiles walks up behind him and wraps his arms loosely around his waist, peppering his neck and shoulders with soft kisses and nuzzles. 

     “Mornin’, sunshine.” Peter says, and tilts his head to the side to give Stiles better access to his neck. Peter gives the eggs one last stir, and then pours the whole pan onto a large serving platter. 

     He puts the pan down, and turns in Stiles’ arm to give him a kiss. When his eyes land on his bruised jaw, he lets out a low growl. 

     “Bastards,” He snarls, cupping the injured side of Stiles’ face. “I wish I could go back in time, if only to dispatch them slower and more painfully.” 

     Stiles turns his head to kiss Peter’s wrist. 

     “It’s fine, really. Doesn’t even bother me.” He smiles to prove his point, and his lip splits back open. Peter’s eyes burn blue and he bares his teeth at the sight. Stiles rolls his eyes and lets go of Peter so he can reach around him for the roll of paper towels. “Seriously. I’m  _ fine.  _ I’ve been left with worse after a night with you two beasts.” He rips a piece off and blots his lip. 

_      “Those  _ are done in the heat of passion.” Derek growls from the top of the stairs. He makes his way down, in nearly the same outfit as Peter, except his pants are dark grey. Stiles turns to him as Derek saunters up and gently grasps one of his hands, inspecting the rope burns on his wrist. “ _ These  _ were done to punish you. There’s a difference. No one marks you but us.” Stiles gulps, and thinks he must be some sort of sado, because it doesn’t scare him. It turns him on. 

     He feels Peter’s arms snake around his waist, and he leans back into the embrace.  Peter presses his nose and lips against his nape. Derek lifts the hand he’s holding to his mouth, and gently kisses the bruises. Stiles can feel the tilt in the atmosphere, tipping from comforting touch to something else. Why is  _ he  _ tasked with being the adult when it comes to him and his wolves? 

     “Okay, guys. Hands to yourself. Peter slaved over breakfast, and it’s going to get cold. Also, I think the hash browns are burning.”  _ Honestly, and I’m the one with a human nose.  _

     Peter releases Stiles in favor of rescuing breakfast, but Derek stays where he is, frowning at the lines on Stiles’ skin. Stiles leans forward on his toes to peck Derek on the nose. 

     “Really, Sourwolf, I'll live. But hey, they didn’t, so.” He shrugs and leaves it like that. “Sit. Let the Betas tend to their Alpha.”

     Stiles can see that Derek really tries not to react to that, but he still tilts his chin up a bit and puffs his chest. Stiles loves pulling out pack rank names, and seeing the effect that it has on him. 

     Derek sits at the kitchen island and opens the paper that Peter must have retrieved earlier. Stiles sets up the coffee machine and starts a brew. 

     He leans against the counter, where he can see both of his wolves, and sighs happily.  _ This  _ is living. Two beautiful men who dote on him, love him, and would do anything to protect him. And in turn, he would do the same. 

     The only thing that sours his thoughts is the fact that they still haven’t told anyone. It’s a lot of sneaking around, and Stiles hates it. He knows that they aren’t embarrassed of him, or the dynamics of their relationship. But he tells himself that it’s better this way. After all, Derek is six years his senior, and Peter eighteen. 

     But he turned eighteen a month ago, and graduates in two weeks. So fuck what anyone thinks. If he wants to walk down the street with a Hale on either arm, or go to the movies, one hand in each of theirs, that’s exactly what he’ll do. 

     He  _ does _ feel a little guilty for his dad. Beacon Hills loves their sheriff, but will they love a sheriff who has a son in such a modern relationship? Being bi isn’t such a headline-worthy thing anymore. Hell, the mayor’s daughter is a lesbian. But this thing he has with Derek and Peter? He doesn’t want people to laugh at them behind closed doors, or label them as incestophiles. Because that isn’t what this is. It’s not a love triangle, but rather a love V, with Stiles being the connecting factor. 

     When Stiles doesn’t spend the night, Peter sleeps in his own room. He and Derek don’t kiss, or touch, or do anything sexual to each other. Sure, this relationship has strengthened their bond, but it’s because they have a common interest. A common person that they love. But the general public won’t see it that way, and Stiles doesn’t want to cost his dad his job. 

     He had briefly considered moving, but quickly pushed the thought aside. This was Hale territory, and it needed to stay that way. He wasn’t even going to entertain breaking things off. He doesn’t want to sound dramatic, but he’d rather die than be parted from these two. He was all-in, never been so sure of anything in his life than the fact that he was in this relationship for as long as they would have him. 

     So this relationship was here to stay, and in Beacon Hills. Where does that leave them? It’s a dilemma that’s been circling Stiles’ mind for the last few months now. He can’t seem to figure out an answer that will be free from casualties. 

     The coffee machine beeps, and he startles. Both wolves looks over at him, heads cocked. 

     “Really, I’m fine!” It comes out a pitch too high and a bit too loud. 

     They come to him regardless, cocooning him in and working to sap any pain he may be feeling. Derek buries his nose into Stiles’ neck. 

     “You stink of anxiety.” His voice is muffled against his skin. 

     “Talk to us, Stiles.” Peter urges from him from his other side. 

     Man, he loves all of the touching and concern, but sometimes his wolves can be downright  _ overbearing.  _

     “Over breakfast!” He shakes them off. “Seriously,  _ go,  _ Peter, finish plating the food. Derek, back to the paper.  _ Now!”  _ He does his best werewolf-growly voice, and it sounds more like a something that would come from a puppy. But it breaks the tension. 

     Derek chuckles, shaking his head, and heads back to the island. 

     “I love it when you get bossy.” Peter says with a wink and a slap to Stiles’ ass. He continues plating their breakfast. Stiles turns to the coffee, making their cups just the way they like it. Derek’s black, with a few drops of vanilla and a generous sprinkle of cinnamon. Peter likes frothed half & half with maple syrup (the real stuff, of course). He also drizzles a caramel syrup smiley face on top of the foam for good measure. As for his own drink, he dumps a packet of hot chocolate into the bottom before pouring coffee over it. He tops it with a spray from the whipped cream can.  _ Hmm.  _ He has plans for this whipped cream. Better not use it all. 

     He sets down the coffees in front of their spots, and goes to sit inbetween his wolves. They both wait for him to take the first bite. After that, it’s a free-for-all. 

     They eat in silence, but Stiles doesn’t need wolf senses to sense the tension in the air. They’re patiently waiting for him to bring it up. Derek keeps his knee pressed against Stiles’, and on his other side, Peter has a hand on his thigh. Stiles decides to cut right to the chase. 

     “I want to move in after I graduate.”

     The reaction is immediate. 

     Derek stands and faces Stiles, pulling  him into a crushing hug.

_      “Yes.” _ He sighs, hooking his hand under Stiles’ chin to capture his lips with his own. He opens his mouth and Derek’s tongue surges forward, licking and caressing every inch of his mouth. Derek tastes of breakfast, coffee, and cinnamon. He moves his hands to grip Stiles’ thighs, kneading them between his large hands. 

     Peter had muttered an emphatic  _ Absolutely  _ at the same time Derek had responded, and he’s now standing at Stiles’ back, nose behind his ear, nibbling on the shell. He runs his hands up and down stiles’ arms. 

_      Talk about sensory overload,  _ Stiles thinks. But when is it not? These two are all over him when they’re alone, and his nerves are always left fizzled out in the best possible way. He’ll never tire of the touching. This is his heaven. Who woulda thunk? 

     Peter gives a particularly rough thrust to Stiles’ back, and it topples Stiles forward into Derek. He lets out a little squeak of surprise as his trajectory suddenly changes. Peter is pulling back on his arms, trying to correct the fall. He pulls too hard though, and now Stiles is falling backwards. Derek follows him, too invested in the kiss to break it. 

     They crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Peter has wrapped his arms around Stiles’ chest, and takes the brunt of the fall. Derek stick his hands out on either side of them, catching himself so his weight doesn’t rest fully on Stiles. 

     Stiles is laughing, and then they are too, and he’s just so damn happy. He’s loved, he’s safe, he’s _home._ He had feared the answer to his earlier declaration, but he should have known better. They’re just as invested in this as he is. Maybe even more. 

     Stiles’ lip has cracked open at some point, and Derek growls at the sight, licking at the wound. Peter kisses his neck and jaw as best he can from his position, and his hips grind in lazy circles. Stiles can feel his cock, firm underneath him. He can feel Derek’s too, and his own dick is rapidly swelling. He moves his head back and to the side to give Peter better access, and Derek moves down his body, rucking up his shirt and planting kisses across his stomach. He moans loudly. 

_      Bang bang bang.  _

     Stiles yelps, and even the wolves jump. 

     “Stiles, I know you’re in there. Come the hell out.” His dad’s voice comes through the door.  _ Oh shit.  _ What the fuck is he doing in town? 

     “Stay quiet!” He hisses to them, hoping that his dad will assume no one is home. The door is locked, as it always is when Stiles is over. Derek has gotten the pack used to calling before they head over now, so it’s not usually an issue. 

     “Don’t even try it, Stiles. I tracked your phone here. I’ve tried calling you a dozen times.” 

_      Shit shit double shit.  _ Stiles had spaced charging his phone, and it must have died at some point overnight.

     “Um, yeah! Hold on a second, I… coming!” He pushes against Derek, who gets off of him, and still has a raging boner. Hell,  _ Stiles  _ still has a raging boner. And according to the shape pressing against his ass, so does Peter. 

     He goes to grab Derek’s outstretched hand, only to hiss when he pulls his weight with it.  _ Ouch.  _ So the wrist pain is back, then. 

     “Quick, quick, quick.” He whispers urgently to Derek, and he sees black lines creep up his wolf’s arm.  _ That’s better.  _

_      “Stiles!”  _ His dad warns. 

     “Coming!” His voice is an octave too high. 

     Peter is standing now, and desperately trying to make his hard-on disappear. He shuffles to the couch, sits, and crosses his legs. It would be comical if his dad wasn’t mere feet away on the other side of the door. 

     Derek seems to be having the same issue, and he stands behind the kitchen island, grasping the edge with his hands, going for nonchalance. His knuckles are white. 

     Stiles runs to the door, ruffling his hair and adjusting his half-hard dick on the way, hoping it looks natural. He hefts the metal door open, and lifts one arm above him to lean against the door frame with his elbow.

     “Heeey Dad! What brings you to ye olde wolf den today?” He catches sight of his dad’s face. Shock. Then confusion. Then anger. 

     Oh man. His jaw. Then he follows his father’s gaze to his wrists. The  _ same  _ wrists with deep rope bruises. 

     “Shit.” He blurts, quickly clasping his hands behind his back. “I guess I was in a slight predicament? The smallest of predicaments. Not even a predicament, really.” 

     His father’s face has turned red, and his lips are in a thin line. He glares at Stiles, and places a hand on the gun holstered at his belt. He’s in civilian garb, but still insists on carrying. Stiles doesn’t blame him. Aaaaand he’s staying silent. Stiles  _ knows  _ it’s a trap, but he can’t stop the word vomit. 

     “I forgot to charge my phone. When I was at Scott’s. All night last night, actually. Came here just a few minutes ago.”

     His dad rolls his eyes and shoves past him. Stiles lets out a “Hey!” which is ignored. He trails his dad with a barely contained look of fear. 

     John marches to the center of the loft, where he can see both Derek and Peter. They’re posed  _ exactly  _ like you’d expect people to pose who’d been fooling around seconds before.  _ For fucks sake.  _

     “Peter.” His dad acknowledges. Peter gives a strained, over-the-top smile. John scowls and turns to Derek. 

     “Derek.” He says, and his voice is lower. Angry.

     Derek gulps and replies, “Mr. Stilinski.”

     “Now I haven’t been ‘Mr. Stilinksi’ since I became privy to this whole supernatural mess.” He crosses his arms and parts his legs in a power stance. Stiles has seen Derek use the same pose to enforce his word. For a second, Stiles imagines the power his father would have if he were an alpha. An involuntary shiver passes through him. 

     “Dad, I can explain-” Stiles starts, but his dad cuts him off. 

     “No, Stiles. I don’t want to hear from you. I’d like to hear from the two adults in the room, as to why my son looks like he’s been bound and beaten.” His face is still red. “Couch,  _ now.” _

     “I’m eighteen.” Stiles grumbles to himself. 

     Derek, however, obliges immediately. Stiles is relieved to see that his under-the-belt situation is no longer a situation. He sits next to Peter. Stiles goes to squeeze in between them. 

     “Not you, Stiles.” John says with exasperation and rolls his eyes. Stiles makes an ‘iduhno’ sound and sits on the coffee table instead. His dad stays standing. 

     Everyone is silent. 

     “John, if I may ease your mind-” Peter starts, with his smooth, reasonable voice. 

     “Peter, I don’t want to hear you talk to me like I’m an imbecile, hidden in your words laced with eloquence.” John snaps. Peter clamps his mouth shut. “I’m only going to say this once. I know exactly what’s happened, so don’t think you can lie to me. I may not have fancy werewolf hearing, but I know all three of your tells.” He points to each of them. “You tell me the truth - the  _ whole  _ truth - or I swear to god, there will be hell to pay.”

     “Dad-” Stiles’ hears his voice break. 

     John holds up a hand to silence Stiles. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. 

     “Not from you, kiddo. I want to hear it from them.”

     Stiles feels his heart race into overdrive. He literally  _ just  _ told them he wanted to move in, and now they have to explain what this is to his dad?  _ Now?  _ He figured they’d tell the pack first, and it would give him some sort of crash course to telling the most important person in his life. 

     Derek clears his throat. 

     “Mr. Stil- um, John. I’m going to cut right to the chase. We care very deeply for your son. Everything was consensual, and in no way was he coerced.”

     “Excuse me?” John says, confusion clearly written on his face. 

     “If anyone was coerced, it was most certainly my nephew and I. Stiles gets  _ very  _ determined when he wants something.” Peter says. Stiles groans and buries his face in his hands. Could this be going any worse?

     “Stiles, are they saying that you  _ asked _ them to do this? Why on earth…” his dad is pinching his nose again. “Start from the beginning.” He says, not looking at any of them. 

     Derek and Peter both look at Stiles. Stiles shrugs and mouths  _ what do I say _ to them. They just stare back. So fucking unhelpful. 

     “Dad, I really would rather not give you a play-by-play on my love life.”

     John’s head snaps up, and a look of horror is blooming on his face. His eyes dart from Stiles, to Derek, to Peter, back to Stiles. 

     “What are you talking about?” His dad’s voice sounds only slightly strangled. 

     “What are  _ you  _ talking about?” Stiles squeaks. 

     “I’m talking about the five bodies they found savaged in Jefferson County yesterday evening.”

_      Shit fuck motherfucking goddamn it why me- _

     “Oh. Same. Totally. What else would I be talking about? Gosh jolly!” The hole he’s digging himself is only getting deeper, but his  _ dumb fucking mouth  _ has a mind of its own. 

     His dad’s hand is back on his gun, and he flicks the safety strap open. 

     “What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing with my son?”

     Stiles has only ever heard his dad swear a handful of times. He only does it when he’s extremely angry, frustrated, or disappointed. He didn’t even swear when Mom died. This is  _ bad.  _

     Peter puffs his chest, and Derek shrinks back slightly. Honestly, Derek is probably the smarter of the two at this moment. 

     Stiles stands up and places himself between his wolves and his dad. 

     “Dad, you need to sit-”

     “I think you need to sit, son.”

     And that’s it. He’s tired of being cut off and overruled by his dad. That’s, what, four, five times now? He stands his ground. 

     “Dad, you need to stop talking over me like I’m a child.”

     “You are a child, Stiles. You’re  _ my  _ child.” There’s tears forming in his dad’s eyes. 

     Oh, man. He can’t handle when his dad cries. It renders his defenseless. He grabs his dad and hugs him tight. His dad hugs him back, clutching him hard. 

     “Can you listen to me, Dad?” He asks, chin still hooked over his shoulder.  _ “Really  _ listen? And save the judging for later?” 

     He father clears his throat and lets go of Stiles. 

     “Let’s get this over with.”

     The statement doesn’t exactly build confidence, but Stiles refuses to be embarrassed of his relationship with the Hales. 

     His dad lets go of him and sits heavily on the coffee table, glaring at Derek. 

     “Talk.”

     “Like I said, Sir, we care for him very deeply. He’s the one in control here. Not us.”

     John grimaces. 

     “Do I even want to ask you to further explain ‘we’?”

     “Peter and I.”

     His dad closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s trying to maintain his patience, Stiles can tell. 

     “What exactly is the nature of your relationships with my son?”

     Peter pipes up. 

     “Stiles and my nephew like to beat around the bush, and you know how younger people are when it comes to labels. Frankly, John, Derek and I are in love with him. And he’s in love with us. He’s our mate.”

     Stiles sucks in a breath and feels his eyes go wide. Sure, they’ve thrown around the ‘love’ word before, who wouldn’t after two months of hot sex and domestic cuddling? But  _ mate? _

     “I am?” Stiles says, voice quiet and hopeful. Peter looks at him with that cunning smile. 

     “Did you ever have any doubts, Pet?”

     His dad looks back and forth between them, watching the exchange. 

     “Stiles…” he says slowly. “This? It’s wrong. You only just turned eighteen. And when did this start? You weren’t old enough to give consent, and you two-” he points at Derek and Peter- “are old enough to know better. This is incest.” He says the last part with disgust. 

_      Too far.  _

     “How  _ dare  _ you.” Stiles feels rage bloom in his chest. “They love  _ me _ , Dad. Me. Not each other, not like that. They’ve saved me more times than I can count. They care for me, and treat me right. So believe what you want, but that’s the truth. I’m their human, they’re my wolves, and that’s not going to change.” 

     He stomps over to them, arms crossed, and stubbornly plops down in the middle of the couch, half way on each one’s lap. 

     His dad has a look of shock clearly written on his face. His mouth hangs open, and he closes it with an audible click of his teeth.

     “Son, I didn’t mean- I  _ never  _ meant-” he drags a hand down his face and sighs. 

     “It’s a ‘v’.” Stiles grumbles, arms still crossed, probably looking completely ridiculous sitting on the two men’s knees. He’s surprised that they’ve stayed silent for the most part, but even having them there is enough. 

     “What?” His dad says, dropping his hand and squinting at Stiles. 

     “Us, it’s a ‘v’.” Stiles reiterates. “It’s not a love  _ triangle,  _ It’s a ‘v’. And I’m the point. The connecting factor. There’s no weird stuff going on between Peter and Derek. It’s about me. It’s always been about me.” His voice gets quiet at the end.

     It’s hard, to acknowledge that he’s currently the center of their universe. Not like it’s a heavy burden or anything, but he feels like he’s thinking too highly of himself. It somehow feels indulgent to put it into words, even though it’s the truth. 

     “So if that’s your main issue, then know that it’s not like that.”

     His dad actually snorts. 

     “Yeah, surprisingly, that wasn’t my biggest issue. My issue is that you are dating not only one, but two men far older than you.” He pauses, and chews his lower lip. “Can I speak to you, alone?”

     “They’d just hear us, dad. Werewolves, remember? So any privacy would only be an illusion.”

     His dad sighs. 

     “Fine.” He throws his hands up. “I don’t even know where to go from here. I am honestly at a loss. I love you, son, you know that. I trust you, and I will support you on any decision you make for yourself, to the best of my ability. This… I can’t wrap my head around it right now.”

     He looks worn out, and it’s been all of five minutes since they spilled the beans. Stiles can recognize when his dad is drowning. 

     “Can I… can I tell you about what happened last night?” Stiles asks, thinking that some redirection might be what his dad needs at the moment. 

     John gives him a small smile. 

     “Yeah, let’s start there.”

     Peter pats the side of Stiles’ leg, and extracts himself from the couch.

     “I’ll make you a cup of coffee, John.” He says, trying to keep things relaxed as possible. 

     “Black, please.”

     Well, at least everyone is being civil. That’s a start. Stiles moves to sit in Peter’s spot, but keeps a knee pressed against Derek’s. 

     “So, this complete potato named Garrett…”


	3. What are We?

_Two months ago_

     Hanging out with Derek, Peter, or the both of them becomes a normal thing. It’s nice. He really feels like a part of the pack, how they take the time to make him feel included.

     He’s not the only human in the group, but Lydia has Jackson, and Allison has Scott (And Isaac, but he pretends he doesn’t see that). His dad is an honorary member, but he never comes to pack meetings, or does anything with the pack, really. So Stiles just feels a little isolated.

     But now he has Peter and Derek, who don’t mind if he stops by uninvited, just like the rest of the pack, and don’t snap at him when he gets too loquacious, or goes off on a tangent. While the rest of the pack will roll their eyes, complain, or point blank tell him to shut up - that’s mostly Jackson - Derek will quietly listen to everything he has to say, and Peter will give him a fond smile.

     So yeah, it’s nice. He can sleep the whole night if he’s on his own, and hasn’t counted his fingers in at least a week, nor does he feel obligated to. Life is settling, and that’s a good thing.

     Snuggling becomes a thing, too. Like, no bad touching, but it isn’t so weird anymore if their shoulders, or hips, or knees touch when they’re sitting together. Derek and Peter habitually scent-mark him. A drag of their fingers across his arm when walking past, or a gentle squeeze of his nape when they’re sitting side-by-side. He’s the only human of the pack that doesn’t get touched by a wolf (or two wolves in Allison’s case, and _oh god, so_ not going there) regularly, so he chalks it up to the born wolves understanding that their human packmate needs to smell like pack, too.

     One night he’s over, and they’re watching Van Helsing at Stiles’ behest (“Seriously, how freaking _awesome_ would it be if that was your Beta shift? Hollywood has it right.”). Derek and Peter are on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table. Stiles is sitting on the floor between their legs, and each has a leg resting on his shoulders.

     With no preamble, Derek and Peter move at the same time, sitting up straight and moving their legs off of him.

     “Hey, What gives?” He complains, pausing the movie.

     “Scott’s coming.” Peter replies, sounding thoroughly annoyed.

     “Oh.” Stiles is a little confused. Are they supposed to be keeping their time together a secret? They scent mark him all the time in front of the pack, as subtle as it is.

 _Maybe they’re embarrassed to be seen spending time with you,_ a small voice sneers in his head. He ignores it, but it still picks away at his confidence. A few seconds later, Scott is knocking on the door. Derek rolls his eyes.

     “It’s open, Scott. _It’s always open.”_ He mutters the second part under his breath. That’s just who Scott is, though. He still knocks every time he comes to Stiles’ house, although that could be due to him walking in on Stiles Time the summer before ninth grade.

     Stiles hears the door slide open, then close. They’ve made leaps and bounds in restorating the loft, but Derek insists on keeping the industrial door.

     Scott walks down the short hall into the main room, and Stiles can see the microexpression cross his face when he sees Stiles.

     “Oh, hey Stiles. I didn’t know you were here. I uh… just needed to talk to Derek.” _Ooookay._ He goes to stand. “You can stay,” Scott says quickly. “You too, Peter.”

     Stiles gets the distinct impression that Peter hadn’t planned on getting up to begin with. Scott looks at Derek.

     “So, I’m still new to this whole ‘having an alpha’ thing, but I’m trying to get it right. I’m not sure what proper protocol is here, so I’m just going to say it, I guess.” He squares his shoulders and lifts his chin. “Allison and I have included Isaac in our relationship. The three of us already really care about each other, and it’s turned into something more.” Stiles feels his mouth drop open, and closes it quickly when Scott steals a glance at him. “I don’t really know if I’m asking permission, or seeking approval, or just making a declaration? I felt compelled to make it known to you, and the pack.”

     “It’s the nature of the wolf,” Derek explains. He doesn’t sound angry or surprised, just matter-of-fact. “A Beta will feel the urge to alert the Alpha when there’s a change in pack bonds, or pack status. And it’s fine, Scott. Isaac is still fragile, deep down, and I trust you and Allison to treat him right.”

     Scott breaks out a huge, lopsided grin, and his whole body relaxes.

     “Thanks, man. And we totally will.”  He looks at Stiles, who gives him two thumbs up and a wink. Hey, polygamy might not be his thing, but good for Scott. “So, I guess I’ll let you guys get back to-” he looks at the television. “Van Helsing! Oh man, why can’t our Beta shifts look like _that?”_

     “I know, right?!” Stiles vehemently agrees, grinning madly at Scott. He loves this dude so much. Scott returns the grin with his own goofy twist, and turns to leave, a skip in his step.

     The loft door opens and closes again, and they sit in silence for a few seconds.

     “... Wow.” Stiles finally says. “Is it weird that I was kind of expecting that?”

     “I’m not surprised,” Derek says, stretching his legs back out, hooking one over Stiles’ shoulder. Peter does the same. “You’re more in tune with pack bonds than an average human member. You probably sensed the shift in their relationship.”

     “I’d just think that Scott would have been more territorial of Allison. I don’t know if I could ever share a significant other.”

     “It’s different for werewolves,” Peter supplies. “I mean, yes, we’re very territorial, but we understand our base desires better. We’d rather share a mate than lose them, or have them be unhappy.”

     “Pack is all about putting the needs of others before yourself.” Derek expands. “If all parties consent, it’s very easy for us to share.”

     “Trivial things like age, sex, and current relationship status mean little to a wolf when it’s given the green light by the one it pursues. Born wolves accept this at a very young age.” Peter almost purrs.

     “Huh.” Is all Stiles says.

     He doesn’t quite know why, but their words make heat blossom in his gut. Thankfully they can’t see his face, because he can feel the blush that’s creeping up his neck and painting his cheeks. He fidgets uncomfortably, and hopes that neither of the wolves notice. If they do, they stay respectfully silent.

     Without another word, he starts the movie again. He isn’t really paying attention to it though, his mind on other things.

     - - -

     It’s Saturday, and Stiles has thrown together a pack barbecue. He doesn’t stop bothering Derek about it until he makes it mandatory, and then has to endure Stiles’ smug grin. He plans it potluck style, so everyone has something to bring.

     Even Melissa, Jordan, and Chris come. Stiles is trying to get them more involved in pack stuff. It’s important to him. His pack is his second family, and although he’s long felt that Melissa as a second mom, he’s growing closer to Jordan and Chris as well.

     Chris has lost nearly his entire family in the span of one short year. His sister, wife, and father. Stiles doesn’t feel particularly bad about any of them dying, but even _if_ they were problematic, a family member’s death still hurts. He’s glad that Chris still has Allison, and he seems to be taking news of her dating two werewolves extremely well.

     Scott told Stiles the short version of when they told him. No voices were raised, but there had been allusions to wolfsbane, torture devices, and casual mentions about all of the bodies Chris had disposed of that have yet to be discovered, and most likely never will be. Stiles thought it was hilarious.

     His dad is manning the grill, and Melissa is next to him, laughing about something he’s said. It makes Stiles smile. Their relationship has grown as much as his and Scott’s had. After Raphael had left, Claudia and John had been instrumental in helping her get through the divorce. And when his mom died, Melissa had brought casseroles over every week for three months, and consoled his father.

     He and Scott used to have a running bet on how long it would be before they were legally brothers, but hope had dwindled. Now, Stiles thinks they’re just comfortable as good friends. It’s a pity, because he still firmly believes that they’d be great for each other.

     Erica, Lydia, and Allison sit on the porch, giggling at the boys. They’re taking turns wrestling each other. Boyd has already pinned Jackson twice, and Scott and Isaac are more interested in copping feels than actually winning.

     Chris is showing Jordan the latest handgun he’s acquired, taking it apart with ease, just to slot it back together. Jordan looks on with interest, and mentions a few weapons he was able to get his hands on at the military shooting range.

     Derek stands a bit away from them, but Stiles thinks it’s so he can see everyone without having to turn his head much. His stance is relaxed, and he has a small smile on his face. And where is Peter? Stiles sits up straighter in his lawn chair, and looks around. Ah, there he is.

     He’s stepping out of the house, two huge coolers in either hand. Stiles is sure that he would struggle to pull one across the lawn, let alone heft both of them. He effortlessly strides to the table where the food is, and pushes them underneath the table. It’s a scramble for the teens when they see him open it to reveal soda and booze. Well, the guys scramble. The girls are more chill about it, but clearly just as excited. Stiles stays where he is, content to watch the mayhem unfold.

     “Hey!” His dad barks, pointing his tongs at them. “I’ll allow _one_ beer a piece.” He’s met with groans and complaints. “I don’t care if it doesn’t affect werewolves! The law’s the law, and I’m the sheriff of this town.”

     Stiles snorts at his dad’s smug expression. Derek makes his way over to the coolers, and he stands next to Peter, Chris, and Jordan, as they watch the teens dig through the coolers, amused. After they’ve picked their drinks, the adults converge at a much more leisurely pace.

     “Hey, Hale! Bring me one!” Stiles calls over, laughing when they both turn to look at him. Peter arches a brow at Derek, who just shakes his head with a smile.

     Peter bends to grab two beers out of the cooler. He pops the bottles open, and takes a generous pull from one of them, throwing his head back. Stiles licks his lips involuntarily. Peter lowers his head, and looks at Stiles with a still-arched brow. Stiles is sure a blush colors his cheeks as he lowers his eyes. It’s not like he has the hots for Peter, but he also isn’t blind. Peter is an attractive man.

     He watches Peter lean over to Derek and whisper something in his ear. Derek quirks his own brow and turns to look at Stiles, with something akin to appraisal in his gaze. Welp, if he wasn’t blushing before, he most certainly is now. Peter turns back to the table and tops off the beer he drank from with a healthy serving of whiskey. Then the two walk over to where Stiles is sitting, and they each take a seat on either side of him.

     Stiles goes to grab the untouched beer from Peter’s hand, but he pulls it away with an _‘ah’,_ and instead hands him the one mixed whiskey, a glint of mischief in his eyes. It’s Stiles turn to raise his eyebrow this time, but he doesn’t say anything, just accepts the drink without complaint.

     He goes to raise the bottle to his lips, and then hesitates. Peter had his lips on this bottle. He doesn’t know why, but the thought sends a thrill through him. _What the fuck?_ He decides not to inspect that too closely, and touches the rim to his lips, taking a long drag from the bottle. It’s bitter, and burns slightly, but in a way that pools deliciously in his chest and stomach. He can’t help himself, and darts his tongue out to lick the rim.

     “Good?” Peter asks, and Stiles realizes that he’s been watching him the entire time. Stiles clears his throat.

     “Uh, yeah. It’s good. Thanks.”

     Peter leans back in his chair with a pleased expression. Stiles turns to give Derek a ‘what’s up with him?’ look, but when he sees Derek’s face, he looks just as pleased as Peter. A smirk plays on his lips before he follows Peter’s lead, and leans back himself, closing his eyes and soaking in the sun.

     What is going _on_ with them today? Whatever it is, it somehow resulted with him being able to cheat the one-beer rule his father set in place though, so whatever. Works for him.

     Stiles relaxes again after a minute, and they joke and chat, the conversation flowing easily. Chris and Jordan gravitate over, and add their two cents. Stiles doesn’t say anything, but the way Jordan acts sometimes, reminds him of a werewolf. It’s subtle behavior that he thinks even Jordan doesn’t realize. He wonders if anyone else notices. But it’s a moot point, because Jordan obviously isn’t a were.

     “So Stiles,” Chris says. “John told me that you were accepted into the police academy. Congratulations.”

     Stiles can’t help but preen at the praise.

     “Yeah, I’m really excited. And it’s only a twenty-minute drive to the academy, so I can leech off my pops for a few more months.”

     They all chuckle.

     “Well, you already have a place on the force,” Jordan says. “You’ll be a great addition.”

     Stiles smiles. He used to have big dreams of working for the FBI, or CIA, but after this past year, he’s realized that he’d rather be right here, protecting his home. You can never have too many people who are privy to the things that go bump in the night.

     “If you ever want some extra weapons or combat training, feel free to let me know.” Chris offers.

     “I’ll definitely take you up on that.” Stiles says. He feels Derek place a hand on his thigh, and it’s almost… possessive?  He turns to him, giving him a curious look. Derek isn’t even looking at him though, he’s looking at Chris.

     He’s pulled out of his thoughts by his dad announcing that the food is ready. There’s an ungodly amount of meat stacked: steaks, burgers, bacon and hotdogs, and then there’s all the fixings that go with that. Grilled mushrooms and onions are stacked next to them, and then there’s the rest of the spread. Salads, chips, dips, and all sorts of sweets. Stiles once again grumbles internally about the finer points of werewolf advantages, one being the ability to gorge themselves stupid on junk food.

     Everyone heads to the food with enthusiasm. Derek and Peter stand, waiting for Stiles, and he just waves at them.

     “Go ahead, I’ll grab something when the frenzy is over.” He also doesn’t want to tip his dad off that he may be a bit tipsy. One beer isn’t going to do that, and then the jig will be up.

     “Steak or burger?” Derek asks simply.

_Oh._

     “Um, burger, I guess. With all the toppings. Oh! And some of that potato salad that Melissa brought, that shit is _bomb.”_

     Peter and Derek walk over to the food, and is it wrong of Stiles to enjoy the dual view? _Hate to see you leave,_ Stiles thinks, and then Peter is looking over his shoulder, smirking,  and OH MY GOD DID HE SAY THAT OUT LOUD?! He feels like if he dies on the spot from embarrassment, it will be a blessing. At least it doesn’t appear that anyone else had heard him; they’re all too focused on getting the best cuts of meat.

     He groans and buries his face in his hands. He’s been all over the place lately. He _knows_ he’s bi, and honestly, he doesn’t have an issue with it. He also knows, objectively, that the Hale gene pool is a gift to humanity from whatever god crafted them. He’s not _blind,_ but he’s also not looking to start anything. He can appreciate good looks without being actively attracted to a person, right?

     Because Derek is his Alpha, and Peter is almost two decades older than him. Not to mention the fact that there’s no way on earth either of them would lower their standards for Stiles. He knows that he isn’t _bad_ looking per se; he’s definitely grown into his frame, and he even considers himself modestly good-looking. But Derek and Peter? That’s a whole other playing field. Peter had practically admitted that all werewolves are bi, so he’s got that working for him, but it’s not a solid case.

     And why is he even entertaining the thought? He gives his head a little shake. He’s slightly past buzzed. That’s why. It has to be. But he wasn’t buzzed when Peter had taken a swig of his beer, before. He licks his lips, trying to catch a lingering taste of Peter.

     He’s pulled out of his thoughts when he sees his dad loading bacon on his burger.

     “Oy! Pops!” He yells. John startles, and has the decency to look like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “Yeah, you can take three of those off. Two is more than enough.”

     His dad rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told.

     Scott is walking over, and plops down next to him with an overflowing plate of food.

     “Hey, dude!” He greets Stiles happily.

     “Hey man. So, serious question: who won in that sparring match? You or Isaac?” Scott blushes and ducks his head. Stiles gives him a playful punch. “Come on, man. You know I’m just playing. You three look good together.”

     Scott’s entire face changes at that, a huge grin blooming on his face, and he lifts his chin proudly.

     “Yeah? You really think so?”

     He gives Scott the most genuine, face-splitting grin he can manage.

     “Totally, dude.”

     Scott starts in on his food, and Stiles chews his cheek. He steals a quick glance at the food table, where Derek and Peter are patiently waiting at the end of the line.

     “So Scott, actual serious question this time, for real. And if I’m crossing any boundaries, feel free not to answer. But… you three, How does it work?”

     Scott sits there with his mouth open, a piece of burger precariously dangling, and his whole face turns red.

     “Um… well, we haven’t really gotten that far yet…”

     Stiles realizes his mistake, and is quick to fix it.

     “Oh god, no! I didn’t mean bedroom dynamics, you’re mind is straight in the gutter, McCall. I meant emotionally. Like, is it hard to share Allison? Or vice versa? Do you get jealous when you see them with each other?”

     “Oh.” Scott’s face lights up again. “No man, not at all. And it’s kinda weird, because I feel like maybe I should be? But the wolf inside me,” he thumps a hand to his chest, “it isn’t jealous. It’s the opposite. It’s extremely pleased, and happy, and content. It’s like Isaac was a missing part that I didn’t _realize_ was missing. Words can’t really describe it.”

     He has a far off, dopey look on his face. _The look of a love-drunk fool,_ Stiles thinks fondly.

     “All three of us could feel that something was happening,” He continues. “We weren’t really sure what we were doing. But I feel like Isaac and I’s wolves guided us. To her. Allison, I mean. And don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely into him, but as a wolf we crave over anything to protect our human mate.”

     He stops suddenly, and snaps his mouth shut.

     “Scott,” Stiles says. “Did you just- did you say the _M word?_ Is that even a thing?” He’s dumbfounded. He had heard it tossed around on shady internet sites, where half of their information was spot-on, and the other half was complete bullshit. Other than that though, there’s never been any mention of it being a real thing. “So, are you guys like soulmates or something?”

     “No, it’s not like that.” Scott says. “It’s just the word that comes to mind when I think about her. It’s the wolf equivalent of boyfriend or girlfriend, except it feels like it runs deeper? There’s no weird rituals, and I don’t feel some sort of magical pull or anything, but to feel like I want to call her my mate… I think it’s a big thing.”

     “It’s a very big thing,” Derek says, walking up to them with Peter in tow. He hands Stiles his plate, and Stiles thanks him. Derek smiles, then turns back to Scott. “You’re right, there’s nothing magical or ritualistic about it, but for your wolf to think of her as ‘mate’ is a big step. It means that you’ll do anything for her, that you’d follow her to the ends of the earth, even sacrifice yourself for her. It’s something special, a love that deep.”

     Scott’s back to blushing and ducking his head.

     “Scott, go sit with your sweethearts.” Peter says, sounding like he’s dipped his annoyance in honey. Scott’s in the seat that Peter had vacated to get his food.

     “Oh, yeah, sure thing.” He stands up, shoots Stiles one more grin, then walks across the backyard over to the porch where Allison is sitting between Isaac’s legs on the steps. He gives them both a peck before sitting down.

     “Young love,” Peter sighs dramatically as he reclaims his seat. Stiles snorts. He looks down at his plate, at the two hamburgers and massive serving of potato salad.

     “Derek, this is way too much. I’m not going to be able to eat half of it.” Stiles shakes his head.

     “Just eat your fill and I’ll finish what you don’t,” He replies, grabbing his own huge burger and taking a large bit out of it. Stiles finds himself gulping at the sight, eyes trailing line of grease that trickles through his stubble and down his neck. He clears his throat and turns back to his own food, desperately trying not to squirm.

     After taking a few bites, he asks, “So, are you guys coming to Jungle tonight with us?”

     “Jungle? Don’t you have to be eighteen to go there?” Peter arches a brow at him.

     “No,” Stiles says, “you just need and ID that _says_ you’re eighteen. And lucky for us, ours all says we’re twenty-one.”

     Peter rolls his eyes.

     “Well I suppose _someone_ will have to keep you in check. You’re liable to be drugged and slung over some caveman’s shoulder.”

     “Hey! I can take care of myself. Especially against a human.” He sniffs. “I’ll remind you that I once helped kill an Alpha, defeat a Kanima, _and_ two psychopaths, _and_ an Alpha pack, _and_ a darach, _AND_ the worst threat we’ve seen since junior year, me.”

     It’s self-depreciating, but he manages a harsh laugh. It sounds hollow, and then they’re silent for a beat too long.

     “Stiles, the Nogitsune wasn’t you,” Derek says softly, and places a hand on Stiles’ nape. Stiles closes his eyes and leans back into the touch.

     “I know. I know it wasn’t. But I’m the one stuck with all of the memories, and seeing it in the first person? Seeing _my_ hands do those things? Sometimes, it’s hard to differentiate.” His voice sounds raw, and he’s fighting back tears. When did things get so sobering? Peter places a hand on his back from his other side, and rubs it back and forth gently.

     “You okay, son?” His dad’s voice washes over him. He looks up to see his dad standing in front of him, arms crossed, a look of concern written all over his face. Behind him, Stiles can see that most everyone else is pointedly _not_ looking over, but werewolf hearing makes that a moot point. _Great._

     “Yeah, um, I’m fine. Just… got caught up in my head.” He gives his dad an unconvincing half smile, and he doesn’t need to say anything else, because his dad _knows,_ has been helping through the nightmares, flashbacks, and panic attacks that happen behind closed doors. They’ve been significantly less frequent in the past month, though. Stiles thinks he’s finally getting past this.

     His dad looks at Derek, and then Peter, and gives them both a small nod.

     “I don’t think I’ve ever said this… but thanks. For taking care of Stiles.” He eyes Peter again. “Even if you did try to kill him last year.”

     Peter only grins at that.

     “Death becomes me, does it not? It seems to have sluiced the rot from my mind. I couldn’t imagine harming your boy now.”

     “He’s pack.” Derek says in a tone that brokers no argument. “Pack is family. And I protect my family.” Derek pauses, and licks his lips. In a softer tone, he adds, “I consider you pack as well, John. You’ll always have a place in the Hale pack.”

     His dad’s expression softens, and his eyes crinkle as he gives a heartfelt smile.

     “I really appreciate that, son.” He leans forward to clasp a hand on Derek’s shoulder, and gives him The Fatherly Nod of Approval. Then he ruffles Stiles’ hair, and walks back to where he’d been sitting with the rest of the adults.

     “Your father is a good man, Stiles.” Peter observes. Stiles has to blink away tears of emotion.

     “Well I have to get it from somewhere, don’t I?” He quickly quips. He’s too close to feels for comfort.

     The rest of the afternoon passes, and Stiles finds himself dozing in the warm sun at one point. When he wakes up, the sun is setting, the food is packed away, and people are getting ready to leave. He stands up and stretches his arms high above his head, groaning and releasing a yawn. He cracks an eye open, and sees Derek obviously eye his stomach, where his shirt has ridden up. He quickly lowers his arms, tugging the hem down and blushing.

     Suddenly, an awful thought creeps into his mind.

     Are they playing some sort of game? See who can make Stiles blush the most? It’s the only thing that makes any real sense at this point, and it kind of pisses him off. He’s not some sort of entertainment for them to laugh at behind closed doors. He thought they were friends, pack. Derek and Peter are just being cruel at this point.

     If that’s the case, two - _three_ \- can play that game.

     The wheels in his mind start rolling, and he comes up with a devious plan.


	4. Pure Ecstasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say sorry for the longer-than-normal chapter, but I get the feeling that you guys don't mind 😘
> 
> Also, this is most definitely the shirt I am referring to in this chapter 😂

     With his mind made up, he strolls over to his dad and reiterates that they’re having a pack night at the loft, so he’s spending the night. It works as a cover for going to Jungle and being able to wake up with the hangover in peace. His dad gives him a one-armed side hug, and gives him a kiss on his head.

     Stiles strides right past Derek and Peter, refusing to acknowledge them. He catches Derek’s nostrils flare, and a confused look passes over his features. Good. Let his wolfy senses be stumped. Stiles gives Scott a pat on the back on his way by.

     “See you in an hour, man.”

     Scott replies with the biggest, most obvious wink on planet earth.

     Stiles jumps into the shower, washing and drying himself as fast as he can. Then he heads to his bedroom, and gets to work.

     He has a bag of clothes packed, and originally planned on getting ready at the loft. He has a new set of plans now.  He pulls on a pair of black spandex boxer briefs, that hug his ass and showcase his junk in an amazing way. Then he digs through his closet, grabbing jeans he bought a while ago, but hasn’t quite had the confidence to wear yet.

     He pulls them on, and _damn._ Even he knows how good he looks in them. It’s darker denim that sports the distressed, washed out, roughed up look. They’re relaxed on the bottom half, but tight around his thighs (which have been filling out nicely), and cup his ass perfectly (which has filled out even better). The accentuate the bulge in the front. He’s not going to pretend he has legendary porn-star status size, but he also knows he’s fairly larger than average. There’s a reason he always opts for baggy jeans.

     He grabs a shirt that he used to wear as a freshman, when he was still gangly limbs and soft muscles. It looks similar to Peter’s v-necks, but this one also has buttons. He undoes all three, and it plunges several inches deeper. It’s burgundy, with white threading, and the sleeves go halfway down his biceps. He hasn’t worn it in years, because with his new muscle mass, it’s a tight fit. He rolls his shoulders, and is pleased with the visual. It shows off every movement of muscle, and hugs his chest in the best way. He crosses his arms next, and his biceps bulge, stretching the fabric to within an inch of his life.

     Well, shit.

     He looks _good._

     Some may even say he looks like a snack.

     He grins at himself in the mirror. There’s mischief dancing in his eyes, and he almost feels sorry for Derek and Peter. _You reap what you sow,_ he thinks bitterly. He artfully tousles his hair, and then throws on a large, baggy flannel over his clothes. He grabs his wallet and keys, and quickly leaves the house, thankful that everyone has either already left or is still out back.

     He takes off the flannel and chucks it in the back, then heads to Jungle. As he gets closer, he can slowly feel himself losing his nerve. He chews on his bottom lip. What if everyone thinks he looks ridiculous? What if Derek and Peter openly laugh at him, when he tries to play their game and fails?

     He pulls up at a red light, and turns to look at the convertible that’s next to him. There’s three total _babes_ in there, giggling and blasting their music. One sees him looking, and she nudges her girlfriend next to her. Then all three are looking at him, and he’s frozen. The light is still red, and he can’t drive away. He goes into goofy defensive mode, and gives them finger guns with a _‘heeeey’_.

     They giggle and blow kisses. _Are they flirting back?_ Before he can do much more than gape, the light turns green and they take off. One girl yells, “See you later, hot stuff!”

     And just like that, confidence restored. He doesn’t think a woman has ever so blatantly flirted with him. Then again, he usually doesn’t go around with shirts that are painted on. He preens a little. It’s a nice feeling.

     He pulls into Jungle’s parking lot a few minutes later, and doesn’t see anyone else’s car in the corner of the lot where they said they’d meet. But he’s here half an hour early, so he’s not that surprised. They’ll see his Jeep, and they can meet him inside. Although he’s feeling confident again, he’d rather his friends see him in seedy lighting rather than illuminated full-force by a street lamp.

     He strides confidently up to the doorman, ahead of the line. The guy eyes him with a sneer.

     “End of the line’s back there, pretty boy.”

     Stiles scoffs, and makes a big show of removing his ID and handing it to the doorman.

     “I’m here for the Hale Party.” He lets a hint of annoyance seep into his tone.

     The guy grabs his ID, takes a look at the name, and his eyebrows shoot up.

     “Oh, sorry. I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Hale.”

     He hands his ID back over, and let’s him pass. Stiles makes sure he’s well out of hearing range before he starts laughing. He only realized just last month that throwing around the Hale surname yielded quick results.

     He had witnessed Peter smooth talking the manager at the furniture warehouse when they went to pick out some stuff for the loft. When the manager wouldn’t budge on pricing, Peter had pulled out his phone, apparently to call the owner. He paced the the sales floor for several minutes while in deep conversation, practically purring into his phone, before handing it to the manager with a smug look. The poor guy had been beyond flustered, and gave them everything at half-price, uttering apologies of not knowing who they were. Stiles was impressed, but also exasperated, because Peter could have damn well bought the entire store without denting his fortune. Before the fire, they had been a prominent, wealthy family that everyone in town was familiar with, so it only made sense.

     The next day, Stiles has paid Danny $50 to change the surname on his ID to Hale. This was the first time he had a chance to use it, and it most certainly wasn’t going to be the last. He knows that Peter comes here often enough, and all of the staff know his name.

     The music is loud, the air is humid, and there’s lights dancing over the crowd. He feels himself relaxing and unwinding. He makes his way over to the bar, and shoulders a spot for himself. When one of the barmen make their way over, he orders a double shot of tequila, the high shelf stuff, and tells him to put it on the Hale tab. The Barman nods, and pours his drink. He downs the whole thing in one go, and doesn’t even cough as it goes down, burning his throat in the best way.

     He looks over towards the doors, but doesn’t see any of the pack yet, which isn’t a surprise with how early he is. They’ll be able to seek him out once they’re here, even with the press of bodies, so he doesn’t worry about it too much. All that’s left to do is give in to the music.

     He’s about to head out to the dance floor, when the barman grabs his arm. He spins around, internally panicking, thinking he’s been found out. But the barman just slides another double shot of tequila towards him, and points down the bar. Stiles follows his finger, and sees a guy looking over at him, glass raised. He winks at Stiles.

     Stiles tries hard not to blush, but he’s certain that he fails miserably. He’s not sure if four shots in quick succession is the best of ideas, but it would be rude to refuse, right? He picks up the shot, raises it, and throws his head back to drink. He gives the guy one last raise of the glass, as a thank you. The guy just smiles back, and then walks onto the dance floor, lost to the crowd.

     The outfit paired with the alcohol makes Stiles feel bold. He moves through the crowd, to the center of the dance floor, where its bodies bumping bodies. He loses himself to the music. He’s clumsy as fuck in everyday life, but dancing is another thing entirely. He’s always loved to dance. It gives him a chance to clear his head and let go.

     He’s been dancing for maybe fifteen minutes before he feels hands slide over his hips from behind him, and pull him close. Someone is pressing themselves flush against him, and trying to lick his neck.

     “Ah!” He jumps forward and spins around. He stumbles a bit, and wow, that tequila is going to his head _fast._ It’s the guy from the bar, who bought him his drink. He looks like he’s probably Derek’s age, except clean cut, with buzzed hair. Tattoos run up and down his arms. He wears a leather waistcoat, which is unbuttoned, and it reveals more tattoos, and a solid, wide chest. He looks like a body-building biker, and is zero percent his type. He towers at least half a foot over Stiles.

     The guy grabs his hips again and pulls him forward, grinding against him.

     “Flattered, but _no.”_ Stiles yells over the music, trying to get away without causing a scene. He puts his arms up in front of him, but the guy surges forwards, trapping them between their bodies. So he tries a different tactic, and walks backwards, and the dude walks with him, until they’re backing into a dark corner. Stiles hadn’t realized that he’d gravitated that close to the fringe of the crowd. He’s backed up against a wall, and the guy presses a hand over Stiles’ mouth, the other one still digging into he flesh of his hip.

     He leans forward, pinning Stiles against the wall.

     “Love me a fucking twink,” He says into Stiles’ ear. His hot breath moves over his skin and he breaks out in goosebumps. He tries to move, tries to talk, but the guy just further bears down on him. He can’t fill his lungs all the way, and he can’t breathe. His head spins suddenly, and he feels like he’s falling sideways, even though he knows he’s standing up straight. _What the fuck?_

     “Aren’t you going to repay me for that drink I sent your way? Your pretty lips would look even prettier around my cock.” And then the hand on his hip is grabbing his shoulder and pushing him down. He lets out a muffled cry, and locks his knees. He shouldn’t have had that second helping of tequila. It’s already wormed itself into his brain quicker than he feels it should have. His skin where the guy is touching him feels electric, and the feeling makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

     “Gonna be better for both of us if you don’t fight it, _twink.”_ He says. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut as a wave of nausea rolls through him.

     And then the weight is gone. It’s so sudden, that he stumbles forward. Strong arms grab him and stand him up straight, but these ones feel different. Softer, kinder. His skin feels like it’s glowing with soft light wherever they touch. He realizes that his eyes are still closed.

     He opens them, and meets glowing blue eyes. Peter is holding him upright, and his mouth is moving. Stiles turns to look next to him, and can see a vague outline of Derek holding the guy against the wall by his throat. He thinks he might be snarling? A hand pulls his face back to Peter, and he’s shaking Stiles by the shoulders a bit now. Not enough to be rough, just enough to make him notice.

     His lips are still moving, but Stiles doesn’t heat any words come out. He lifts a hand and touches Peter’s lips. Peter stops talking, and his eyebrows knit together. Stiles is more focused on the feeling, though. He drags his thumb across Peter’s bottom lip, and why does that feel so good? The pad of his thumb is alive with sensation. He can’t help the laugh that escapes from his lips.

_Oh._ He can hear again. The music filters back in through the fog in his brain, and he can feels the beat move through his body, traveling up and down every nerve, bone, and muscle. Oh man, what a _rush!_

     Derek walks up behind Peter.

     “What’s wrong with him?” He asks in a concerned tone.

     Stiles feels funny, but it’s a nice funny? He’s just filled with unbridled happiness at the fact that Peter and Derek are here. And right now, he feels like touching Derek’s face is the most important task in the world.

     Stiles launches forward to grab his face with both of his hands. Derek jumps, and grabs his wrists. But it doesn’t matter, because he already has his hands on the stubble. He moves his fingers across it, and each tiny bit of movement sends a frisson through his skin. He laughs again. Everything is good. The bad man is gone, and Derek and Peter are here.

     “Oh man, Peter, you have _got_ to try this!” He exclaims, drawing his nails through Derek’s stubble. It should be illegal, how good it feels.

     Actually, everything feels pretty nice right now. Every time he moves, the soft fabric of his shirt brushes against his skin, and it feels like a warm summer breeze tickling his body. Where Derek is still gently grasping his wrists, it’s hot and _alive,_ and there are no words to properly describe that, but his skin is deliciously _alive._

     “That piece of shit must have drugged him,” he hears Peter growl, and there’s just enough light to see him drop fang.

     “Ooo!” Stiles exclaims, and he wriggles out of Derek’s grasp to touch Peter’s fangs with a finger. The small touch he manages is smooth and hard and _wow._ Peter pulls away with a dumbfounded look. “No, I just want to _feel._ Everything has a special _feel_ right now.”

     He pushes into Peter’s personal space and goes for the fangs again. Peter retracts them before he has a chance to touch them again, and Stiles pouts.

     “Stay with Stiles. I’ll find the fucker and beat an answer out of him if I have to.” And then Derek is gone, which is a shame, because Stiles really wasn’t done touching his jaw.

     “Stiles, why don’t we go sit?” Peter says, putting a hand on the small of his back and holding the other arm out towards one of the side rooms. Stiles grabs his outstretched hand and laces their fingers together, and _oh boy,_ it feels so _good._

     “Dance with me, Peter!” He yells, and pulls Peter towards the crowd. Peter looks like he might pull him back, but after a second’s hesitation, he smiles.

     “Of course, pet.”

     Stiles pulls him through the crowd, slightly stumbling, until all he can see are bodies in either direction. Then he whirls so that Peter’s arm ends up wrapped around him. Peter looks surprised, but in a pleasant way.

     And the music. The _music._ It flows around him, flows _through_ him. Travels into his ears and finds its way to his very soul. He lets go of Peter’s hand to lift his arms in the air. The laser lights dance off of his skin, creating patterns that he can almost feel. He watches the lights move across his arms, entranced.

     “Stiles?” Peter’s voice pulls him back to earth. He lowers his arms, and wraps Peter in a crushing hug, hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Stiles!”

     “Peter, I’m so sorry. I never should have let them burn you.” He says. He can barely hear his own voice, but from the way Peter stiffens, he knows he can hear him just fine. He sways back and forth with the music. “It was cruel, and I was angry. You had hurt Lydia. She was my light, the girl of my dreams. And you bit Scott. I was just- so _angry,_ you know? But then you came back, and the difference is like night and day.”

     He pulls back so he can cup Peter’s face with both of his hands. Peter’s eyebrows are knit together again, and that’s just not how Stiles likes to see his face. He reaches up to lace his fingers into Peter’s hair, and uses his thumbs to smooth the lines in his forehead.

     “Don’t be angry. That’s who you _were,_ not who you are _. You’re_ my light, now, Peter. You and Derek. You both make me feel so wanted, you know? I don’t count my fingers anymore, Peter. I don’t count my fingers!”

     He notices that his hands are continuously running through Peter’s hair. Had he been doing that the whole time? Because his hair feels _amazing,_ like seriously. Top quality hair.

     Peter’s stance relaxes, but Stiles still isn’t happy with it. He grabs his hands, which are dangling at his sides, and moves them under the hem of his shirt, to rest on his sides.

     “Touch me, Peter. It feels so good. Let your skin touch my skin.” He swivels his hips left and right, then grinds against Peter. Peter grips his sides, but it’s in an attempt to still him.

     “Stiles, that sorry excuse for a man drugged you. This isn’t you. I’m not going to take advantage.”

     Stiles needs to feel him though. Drugged? Impossible. He doesn’t feel drugged. He feels _great._ He pushes flush against Peter, and licks a line from his collarbone to his ear. Peter shivers, but doesn’t otherwise react. Then he hears Derek behind him.

     “Ecstasy.” He spits it out like it’s a dirty word. He couldn’t be more wrong. Stiles turns around and grabs hold of Derek, peppering kisses across his jaw. The strangled noise that Derek makes sends vibrations throughout Stiles’ body, and it feels so damn _good._

     “Yes, Derek. I feel like I’m in ecstasy, you get it.” He sways with the music again, and Derek is stiff as a board. What will it take to get these two wolves to let loose?

     “Guys, dance with me. I feel like we need to be dancing right now. _Please.”_ He moves in between the both of them, throwing his head back and laughing. He hugs himself with his arms, reveling in this feeling of _ecstasy._

     Ecstasy?

     Holy shit. He’s high.

     He, the sheriff’s son, is on a schedule one substance, and also a little drunk.

     This is _bad._

     “We need to leave, like, now.” He says in a moment of clarity. He’s still swaying, even though he really doesn’t want to be.

     Derek nods, and grabs his hand, pulling him through the crowd and out a side entrance, where there’s no line of people to see them.

     “Text the others, let them know that we and Stiles had to leave.” Derek tells Peter, tossing him the keys to the Camaro. “Then pull up the car.”

     Stiles has to hold a hand in front of his face, because the street lamps are bright to his sensitive eyes. He finds himself staring at his fingers. Have fingers always looked like this? There’s definitely five of them, but it’s almost as if they’re in high definition now.

     “Stiles.” Derek snaps, and Stiles jumps, lowering his head to look st him. Derek grabs his shoulders and looks directly into his eyes.

     “You need to stay with me, all right? We’re going to the loft, and we can work this out from there.”

     Stiles nods and smiles. He knows he’s high now, but that doesn’t mean that he can stop the experience. And right now, there’s almost a light that dances through Derek’s eyes. It’s not his wolf eyes shining through; no, this is different.

     “I see you, Derek.” Stiles gently brushes his fingers against Derek’s rough jawline. “It’s bright and good and pure, your light. _My_ light.”

     An emotion that Stiles can’t comprehend flits across Derek’s face. Then the Camaro is pulling up, and Derek helps him into the back, before sitting next to him and closing the door. Stiles immediately lays on his back, knees drawn up to his chest, and puts his head in Derek’s lap.

     “Stiles, you need to buckle in.” Derek says in a tone that a parent would use for an unruly toddler.

     “No, Der. This is nice. This is how I need to be. Besides, Peter will keep me safe. You both always keep me so safe.” He lifts his hands back up in front of his face, and watches his fingers as he stretches them out, then closes them into a fist.

     They must agree with him, because the car starts to move. Stiles grabs Derek’s hand and presses it to his hair.

     “Pet me, feels so good.” Stiles hums, closing his eyes when he feels Derek’s fingers card through his hair. “I know I should probably be freaking out, but I feel so amazing right now. Guys, seriously. It’s a damn shame that werewolves can’t do drugs.”

     He’s rubbing his hands up and down his own arms, reveling in the sensation. With his eyes closed again, he can see the sparks moving up and down his skin in his mind’s eye, like when Peter had touched him. They pop in blues, greens, and teals.

     “The Nogitsune is never coming back,” He continues, and is he speaking, or just thinking? He’s not entirely sure. “I’m free, and I’ve been free this whole time. But I’ve felt so damn _trapped,_ stuck in the past, stuck in my dreams, stuck wondering if anything is real. Not anymore though. This? It’s clarity. And I can see it. I can see _me. Free.”_

     He thinks he might actually be talking out loud, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He wouldn’t normally share these thoughts with anyone. But right now? It feels like it’s what he’s supposed to do.

     “I stop being afraid, right now. This is the moment, Der. Can you feel it?” He opens his eyes to see Derek looking down at him. He reaches a hand up to cup his face. “We’re free. All three of us. We’re unstoppable together. An immovable force. We should stay together, always.”

     He feels tears spilling out of the corners of his eyes, down into his hair. He isn’t sad though, he’s happy. So incredibly happy. He knows what he wants, what he _needs,_ and it’s all right here in this car.

     The car stops, and Peter gets out. He opens Stiles’ door, and grabs his hand, helping him up and out of the car. Stiles stumbles, and that must be the alcohol in full effect. Peter puts one hand on his hip, and the other on his shoulder to steady him. Stiles grabs him and pulls him into another hug.

     “Isn’t this nice?” He says. “That we can hug now? Because hugging is so important. Nothing makes you feel more accepted, cherished, _human,_ than a hug. No expectations, no demands, just… contact, with another person.”

     Peter slowly wraps his arms around Stiles, then gives him a squeeze before letting him go. Stiles lets go too, with a lazy smile on his face.

     “Let’s get you upstairs, before you start hugging unsuspecting pedestrians,” Peter says with a slight smirk.

     “Don’t even front, Peter. You like hugs. You don’t need to bury your feelings in humor. I appreciate you. Boop!” He pokes Peter’s nose, then turns to walk inside. What he actually does, is walk sideways until Derek steers him back on course.

     When they get into the elevator, Stiles runs his hands down the panel, pushing the buttons for all ten floors. Peter groans and Derek snorts. Then Stiles insists on laying on the floor of the elevator, to properly feel his transcendence to the loft. It takes him until floor four to finally talk both men into laying down with him.

     He holds up his hands, and makes them do the same. Then he grabs them, interlocking the fingers of his left hand with Peter’s right, and his right hand with Derek’s left.

     “Look at this. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We’re connected, the three of us. We share something special. Can you feel the energy that flows through our fingers? The _bond?_ And not a pack bond. This is different. It flows out of you, Peter, and out of you, Derek, and mixes with my own energy, right here.” He pulls their hands in, clutching them to chest. “Then, when our energy becomes one, it flows back out of me and into you. We are each other.”

     He closes his eyes and hums in content, tightening his grip on their hands. Neither of them say anything, but they don’t have to. Stiles knows. He _knows._

     The elevator finally reaches the top floor. Peter and Derek help him to his feet, and then into the loft. Peter breaks off, to go to the kitchen, and Derek directs him to the couch. He sits across from him on the coffee table.

     “How are you feeling, Stiles?” He asks, holding his gaze.

     “Like I’m floating on a cloud in space.” Stiles says happily. Peter comes over with a cold bottle of water and aspirin.

     “Drink. You’ll need it.”

     Stiles obediently takes the pills, and drinks half of the bottle. Then he sighs, and sinks into the couch. He looks at them, and smiles.

     “Mmm, my two favorite men. Can we still dance? I want to dance. I want to feel the music move through me again.”

     He gets up before either of them have a chance to respond, and stumbles over to the sound system. Derek’s promised that he’ll get a better one once they’re finished renovating, but even the one he has now is still better than anything Stiles could ever hope to afford. It takes a few tries to plug his phone in, but he finally gets it, and music starts playing through the speakers.

     Derek and Peter are where he left them, watching him carefully.

     “Guys, come on!” He says. “This is probably the one and only time I’m ever going to get to experience ecstasy. I’m in a safe environment, and I’m going to come down eventually. So help me _enjoy_ it. Don’t make me dance alone.” He pulls a pout.

     Peter rolls his eyes, and walks up to Stiles.

     “I've never been able to say no to a pretty face.” He has a mischievous look about him, but there’s nothing nefarious about it. “And also, what on _earth_ are you wearing, Stiles?” He reaches forward to pluck at the neck of his shirt. “I’m not into victim-blaming, but the way you look… it’s no wonder that snake tried to get his hands on you. You shouldn’t look like this, not without Derek or I.”

     Stiles just smiles and sways to the music.

     “I was just playing the game you and Derek seem to be playing.”

     Derek comes over to stands next to Peter, and shamelessly looks Stiles up and down, watching as he swivels his hips.

     “And what game is that, exactly?” Derek asks.

     “You guys have some sort of secret bet. Who can make Stiles blush the most? Who can make Stiles look like a fool first? How far can we push Stiles until he admits he’s caught feels?”

     He raises his hands above his head, closes his eyes, and keeps moving slowly to the beat. He feels like a willow in the breeze, along for the ride and moving however the music deems fit.

     “That’s not at all what’s happening, pet.” Peter says, and Stiles can hear the frown in his voice. It’s enough that the vibrations of the music fades from his body, and he stops dancing. He opens his eyes and sees that Peter’s face has turned soft.

     Things are starting to get too real too fast. His inhibition, and the little voice that attempts to stop him from spilling his thoughts unbridled is gone. And it scares him. He’s not ready for a conversation like this, and he feels like he _should_ be panicking, but he’s not. And that stresses him even further.

     He places a hand on each of their cheeks, and brushes their faces softly with his thumbs.

     “I don’t want to talk about this now, when I’m high. This sounds like serious conversation stuff. My head is too high in the clouds right now. Can we just, enjoy each other’s company tonight? Like we usually do?”

     He gives them a pleading look. It works. He can see the moment they both relax.

     “Of course, Stiles.” Derek says.

     “Whatever you need, pet.” Peter follows.

     And so they stay away from anything that involves their feelings. Stiles dances, they have deep conversations about the Marvel Universe, plans for the loft, and the conversation flows easily. At Stiles behest, Derek sets up a small laser light machine that was left back when they threw a rave at the loft. Stiles lays on his back and watches it, transfixed, for a solid hour.

     They take care of him.

     Around 2am, exhaustion sets in. Stiles can feel himself coming down, both from the ecstasy and the alcohol, and he’s left feeling dead on his feet. His brain feels fuzzy, and he’s finding it increasingly difficult to form coherent thoughts. It’s just enough to where he still has a good amount of self-confidence though, and touching continues to send delightful shivers through his body.

     “Think it’s time to rest now,” He says with a huge yawn, stretching his arms over his head from where he’s been sitting cross-legged on the floor.

     “The spare room is all set up for you.” Derek says from the couch.

     “No!” Stiles objects quickly. “Let’s do a puppy pile!”

     Peter, who’s sitting across from him, leaning against the coffee table, arches his brow.

     “Stiles, what on _earth_ is a puppy pile?”

     “Don’t pretend like you don’t know, Peter.” He waggles a finger in the air at him. “You’re wolves. Of course you know what a puppy pile is. It’s when you _pile up_ like a litter of _puppies.”_ He has an unusually large grin on his face, even for him. “We get to snuggle, and touch. Platonically, of course. No funny business.”

     He gets up and runs (careens) to the closet, pulling out the biggest armful of comforters he can manage. Then he sets about spreading them out. Derek and Peter just watch with amuses expressions, resigned to the fact that Stiles is going to do what he wants.

     He lays out three blankets, one on top of the other, and then goes back for several sheets that they can toss over themselves.

     “See? Puppy pile nest.” He sits proudly in the middle, beaming at the men.

     “So, go-” he waves them away with his hands- “and get ready for bed. The puppy pile is mandatory. King Mieczysław has decreed.”

     Derek snorts.

     “Michey-what now? How did you come up with that one?”

     “It’s his _name,_ Derek.” Peter says with an eye roll. Derek just looks confused.

     Stiles nods at Peter and smiles smugly. Peter pushes himself up, and walks to the stairs. He turns when he notices that Derek isn’t following.

     “Derek, the King has decreed. You wouldn’t want to be a bad Subject.”

     Now it’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes. Stiles thinks he hears him mutter something about being the Alpha, second to no one, but he gets up and follows Peter up the stairs, regardless.

     Once they’re in their rooms, Stiles stands and pulls his shirt over his head. Then he unbuttons his pants and shimmies free of them. He doesn’t even fall once. He’s very proud of himself. All that he’s left in are his exquisite spandex boxer briefs, and he feels like he should be a little shy about it, but he’s not. They’ve seen him in boxers before. Not ones as good as these, but still. And skin-to-skin is an absolute _must_ for a proper puppy pile.

     He lays down on the comforters, rolling and moving his limbs all around. Man, he should have taken his clothes off _hours_ ago. The fabric sends tingles through his skin in the best kind of way. He hums in content, laying on his belly and rubbing his face on the blankets.

     There’s a hitch of breath behind him, and what could be described as a whine. He rolls over to see Derek standing still, in his pajama bottoms. His mouth is agape and his nostrils flare. Peter is walking up behind him, with a dark look in his eyes. He goes as far as to lick his lips while he inhales deeply.

     Why are they making this weird?

     “Seriously, guys. You can stop with the act now. No one wins the bet. You both lose. Actually, you know what? I win the bet. Whatever you were betting, I get it.”

     He sees the tension release from Derek’s shoulders, and he actually laughs. It’s not a sound Stiles hears often, and he props himself up on his elbows to better watch him.

     Derek lays down to his right, still huffing little laughs. Peter, who carried three pillows with him, tosses one each to Derek and Stiles, and then tosses the last one on his own spot, to the left of Stiles. He sits instead of laying down.

     “So tell us, dear pet, how does a puppy pile work?”

     Stiles grins.

     “Tangled limbs. Lots of snuggles. Skin-to-skin. I don’t know why we never do it. It’s supposed to solidify pack bonds. I read about it.”

     Peter chuckles.

     “Puppy piles aren’t a thing with werewolves, believe me. Sounds like something you’d read in an indulgent werewolf romance novel.”

     “Hey!” Stiles bats a hand at his knee. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Platonic snuggles between bros are the best. I’m a seasoned bro-snuggler. Now get over here and snuggle me.”

     Peter obliges. He lays down, and faces Stiles.

     “Now what?” He asks.

     “Now, we sleep. The snuggles will happen organically, believe me. It’s human nature. Probably wolf nature even more.”

     The three of them lay on their backs, and chat idly. Stiles lets his hands travel up and down their sides, their arms, their chests, wherever he can reach. They don’t touch back, but they allow him this. It’s nice.

     He finds his eyes drooping, and sleep takes him suddenly and completely. With his last conscious thought, he rolls towards Derek. Then reaches behind himself to grab Peter’s arm, and drags it over his chest. He drapes his own arm over Derek, gripping his far shoulder.

     He feels like he’s home.

     - - -

     The next morning, Stiles wakes up with a headache, nausea, and little recollection of what happened last night. He groans and shields his eyes from the sun. Whatever he’s sleeping on is far too hard for his liking. And _where the fuck is he?_

     He manages to crack open an eye and look at his surroundings. Oh. He’s at the loft. Yeah, that makes sense. He had meant to come here after the club. But why the hell is he on the floor? He sits up and looks around.

     “Morning, sunshine.” Peter calls from the kitchen. He’s cooking breakfast, and Derek is sitting at the island, with a smirk on his face.

     “Dude, how much did I drink last night?” His mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton balls. He pushes himself to his feet and stretches his arms high over his head. Awfully breezy this morning. He looks down and sees that all he’s wearing is those fancy black boxer briefs that he only wears when he’s trying to impress someone. He drops his hands in an attempt to cover himself, and can feel his face heat up.

     “So bashful.” Peter tuts. “I wouldn’t be, if I was delivering _packages_ like that.”

     Derek snorts into his coffee.

     Stiles just narrows his eyes at him. You know what? He knows for a fact that these boxers make his assets look fantastic. So they can deal.

     He walks over to the island, and plops himself down onto a barstool. Derek slides two aspirin towards him, and then grabs his hand, sapping away the pain. Stiles can’t be held responsible for the moan that escapes his lips. He feels really rough around the edges this morning.

     He gladly accepts the medicine, and swallows it down with the bottle of water that’s on the counter. He tries to remember what happened last night, but all he’s getting is flashes and muddled memories. He remembers being pissed at them for messing with him, and then dressing in his bomb outfit, and then there had been that asshole at the bar…

     He chokes on his water and falls off the barstool.

     “Did I get _high_ last night?!” He shrieks, pulling himself up by the counter, eyes wide.

     “It was hardly a choice,” Peter says, not bothering to turn and look at him. “Some deplorable spiked your drink. You’ll be fine, though. I’m guessing you have some nausea and a headache? They should be gone before the day is done.”

     Stiles’ mind races. He’s desperately trying to remember something, _anything_ about last night, but it’s like trying to grab hold of a fish in a stream. He thinks he has one in his grasp, only for it to slip away. And what he does remember, is distorted by the drug.

     “I can’t really remember anything. What happened?”

     “I dealt with the ass.” Derek says simply. “And I’ll be talking to the club owner today. You mentioned last night that you got your drink from the barman, which means he’s complicit. Things could have gone very differently if we hadn’t shown up when we did.” A growl seeps into his words.

     “And then we came back to the loft, and you spent the night dancing, enjoying light shows, and talking our ears off.” Peter supplies helpfully.

     Stiles feels himself blushing again. He hopes he didn’t say anything embarrassing.

     “Sorry,” He mumbles. He feels Derek place his hand over his own, and looks up.

     “You’re pack, Stiles. Honestly, it was fine. Pack takes care of pack.”

     Stiles smiles at that, and warmth blooms brought his chest.

     “We take care of our King Mieczysław,” Peter drawls from the stove with a wicked glint in his eye.

     Stiles flails and falls off the stool again.

     “You’ll tell _no one,”_ He says after he stands up, doing his best impression of a werewolf growl to drive his words home.

     “Please,” Peter snorts. “I haven’t told anyone for over a year. Why would I spoil the secret now?”

     Stiles is flabbergasted.

     “You _knew?_ How?” He demands.

     “You love your research, Stiles. Well, I also love mine. You think I didn’t take the time to research you, when you proved to be such a little shit, driving wedges in my evil plans? I figured you’d kept it secret for a reason, though. Even in my state of madness, I respected that.”

     Stiles is… actually kind of touched. It’s not as if his life would be ruined if people knew his first name, but it’s a headache teaching people how to write and say it. He turns to look at Derek, and cocks his head.

     “He didn’t even tell me.” Derek says. “I didn’t know until last night, when King Michey - god, i can’t even say it - decreed it puppy pile time.” He’s trying to hold back a smirk, and failing miserably.

     Stiles drags both hands down his face and groans.

     “I did _not.”_ He peeks between his fingers. “You didn’t actually entertain the idea, did you?”

     Derek simply raises an eyebrow and looks pointedly at the nest of blankets on the floor behind them. Stiles closes the gap in his fingers. Now that he thinks about it, he _does_ have a vague memory of being boxed in by two warm, solid bodies last night.

     After they promise not to tell a soul, of his name, the ecstasy, and the entire night before, he spends the rest of the day at the loft recovering. They watch a movie, play chess, and nap. By the time Derek drops him off to collect his Jeep at 8pm, you’d never know he had spent the previous night high as a kite. He’s been trying to recall his memories all day, but it’s near impossible. All he can really dredge up is disjointed emotions, and it’s confusing as hell. He’s frustrated, because he _hates_ losing time. It eases his mind to know that the Hales were with him the whole night though.

     They took care of him.

_You’re pack, Stiles._

     And they fall back into their normal routine, just like that. Peter and Derek stop with whatever game they were playing, but they’re still friendly towards him. He keeps coming over, hanging out, and they keep causally scenting him, making him smell like pack.

     Stiles is never really able to recall what happened that night, but he feels like it isn’t such a bad thing. He trusts them, and when they say nothing happened, he’s inclined to believe it. In hindsight, it’s silly of him to entertain their relationship as anything other than platonic, right?

     He feels like he’s in a really good place right now. An invisible weight feels like it’s been lifted off of him, and things just feel _right._

     Of course, that’s typically when things fall to shit.


	5. One to Ten, Count Again

     Kate is back.

     Kate is fucking _back,_ and she _shot_ _at_ him, and she shot Peter, and she shot Derek, and she dragged Derek out of the loft, bleeding and struggling. She was blue, she was _fucking blue_ with fangs and green eyes, and she had laughed, dropping a bullet by Peter on her way out, and his head is still spinning.

     It’s all fucked.

     Everything is fucked and Stiles can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe,_ because she’s going to kill Derek, and his ears won’t stop ringing, and Peter is bleeding on the floor, gasping for breath and breaking the bullet open with his teeth. _I need fire Stiles, I need a lighter,_ but it sounds far away, and Stiles can’t move, he can’t think, _he can’t breathe_ and his vision is dimming.

     “Pet… please.” The weak plead for help cuts through to him and snaps him back to the present. His eyes focused on Peter, who is laying on his side and clutching his gut, black blood flowing through his fingers. He slumps to his back, unable to support him own weight any longer. Stiles holds his hands out in front of him, and yes, there are ten fingers. So this is real; it’s happening.

     Peter is dying.

     Stiles isn’t sure how he pushes through, but he gets to his feet and stumbles to the kitchen, ripping out drawers and dumping them on the floor, until he finds matches. He runs back over to Peter, tripping right before he gets to him.

     He pushes himself back up and tries to strike the match, but his hands are shaking so bad. He drops the box twice, spilling the matches everywhere.

     “Stiles,” Peter whispers. There’s black blood seeping from his mouth. Stiles lets out a sob that wracks his whole body.

 _“Peter.”_ He can do this. He takes a deep breath, as best he can through his constricted larynx. Then he tries again.

     He lights the match on the first try, and sets the small pile of wolfsbane on fire. Blue smoke swirls up above it.

     “The bullet…” Peter gasps. At first he doesn’t understand, then… _oh god._ The bullet is still buried in his stomach. He gulps. He doesn’t know if he can do this.

     “I’ll be right back.” He mutters, and runs upstairs to the bathroom. He’s much more steady on his feet this time. He grabs the first aid kit, and opens it, dumping out the contents. _There it is._ Forceps, specifically made for remove bullets. It’s been used more than once, but never by Stiles. He’s always been to queasy around blood. He shutters, swallows back bile, and runs back down the stairs.

     Peter is still.

     “Peter!” He yells, rushing to him. He’s breathing, so that’s good. Just passed out then. He’s so pale, though.

     Stiles moves to his stomach and pushes aside the hand resting there. He grasps the bullet hole on Peter’s T-shirt and tears it open. Black blood seeps from the wound, and red lines spider out. He feels faint.

 _No, no, no._ He _has_ to hold on. If he doesn’t, Peter will die. He won’t allow that.

     He grits his teeth and pushes the forceps into the wound. Peter moans, but is otherwise still. He prods for a few seconds before he hits something hard. Easing the forceps open carefully, he and clasps the bullet and pulls it out slowly. When he’s free of the wound, he tosses both the bullet and the forceps across the loft like they’re poison. Okay, hard part is done.

     He turns around and pinches the pile of burnt wolfsbane, gathering as much of it in his palm as he can. He faces Peter, mutters, “Sorry in advance,” and shoves the handful into the wound, pushing it deep into the hole.

     Peter’s eyes snap open, bright blue, and he roars with a mouth full of fangs. His back arches off of the ground as he writhes in pain. Stiles scoots back on his butt, for fear of catching the claws that he’s sprouted. Then, as soon as it starts, it’s over. The red lines recede, and the bullet hole heals over. All that’s left is blood.

     Peter leaps up with a growl, stance defensive and ready to fight. He turns to Stiles, who’s still on his ass, leaning back on his hands.

 _“Stiles.”_ It comes out strangled. He’s rapidly shifting back, and by the time he’s kneeling in front of him, Peter’s human again. Stiles scrambles to his knees and throws himself at Peter, wrapping his arms around him and crying.

     “Thought- you- going- _die!”_ He sobs incoherently, clutching at the fabric of Peter’s torn shirt and digging his fingers into his back. Peter holds him just as fiercely, burying his nose in Stiles’ neck and inhaling deeply.

     Stiles mirrors the movement, his huffs of breath hot against his face as they bounce off of Peter’s skin. He nuzzles in as close as he can, inhaling Peter’s smell. He can’t make out personal scents like wolves can, but Peter has always had a distinct new book smell that Stiles has come to find comfort in.

     Stiles brushes his nose and lips against Peter’s neck, focusing on steadying his breath. He places a small kiss, then another, and he’s pulling back to nose his way up Peter’s jaw, leaving a line of kisses in his wake. Peter grabs his face with both his hands, and presses their foreheads together.

     “Stiles.” He breathes.

     Stiles isn’t completely sure what he’s doing. Is he kissing Peter? Is that something that he wants? He’s confused, but he’s also so goddamn _relieved._ Peter could have died, but he didn’t. Stiles thinks that may have pushed some deeply buried desires to the surface, because _yes,_ he absolutely wants to kiss Peter. _Needs_ to.

     He tilts his chin up and presses his lips to Peter’s. It’s messy, and wet, but it feels so _good,_ so _right._ His panic vanishes, and any thoughts are blocked out of his mind. Peter’s lips move against his, hungry but not devouring. It’s in a way that tells Stiles maybe Peter has wanted this for a while, too.

     Stiles starts to feel lightheaded, and his lungs start to burn. He pulls away and gasps, dragging air into his lungs. The scent of gunpowder invades his nostrils, and settles on his tongue. He presses his forehead against Peter’s again, and grips his the back of his head.

     “Derek. We need to find Derek.” Peter says, breathing as heavily as Stiles is. Stiles nods, because yes, they do need Derek. _He_ needs Derek, just as much as he needs Peter.

     The realization hits him hard. What is he doing? He’s just kissed Peter after a near death experience, and now he feels like his heart is being ripped in two at the thought of losing Derek. He’s having a complete emotional overload, and it leaves him struggling to breathe.

     “I can’t lose Derek.” He gasps out, eyes wide, searching Peter’s face. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

     “I know.” Peter gives him a pack on the lips and stands up, helping Stiles to his feet.

     Peter eyes the remains of the bullet he’s dismantled, and arches an eyebrow.

     “Well, she didn’t want me dead, or she wouldn’t have left me the bullet. Or maybe she didn’t care either way.”

     At that moment, Peter’s phone starts to ring. He pulls in out of his pocket. Stiles sees ‘DEREK’ on the screen. Peter presses his forefinger to his lips, indicating Stiles to be quiet, answers the call, and puts it on speaker.

     “Kate.” He growls, already sure that it isn’t Derek who called.

     “Hey hot stuff,” she replies. Stiles bristles. He’s not the only one.

     “You seem to have taken off with my nephew.” He says, feigning nonchalance. “I was hoping you might return him.”

     “There’s something I want first.”

     “Oh? And what might that be?”

     “The Triskele token.” She reveals, voice smug. Stiles makes a confused face at Peter, and Peter frowns back, clearly confused himself. She continues. “And if you _don’t_ give it to me, I’ll just have to play with Derek here until he tells me how to get it himself.”

     Peter growls loudly. She laughs.

     “Fine. The token is yours. Where and when do you want it?”

     “One hour should be enough time. Why don’t we meet at your old house? I just _love_ the ambiance. Oh, and Peter? Do I even _need_ to mention for you to come alone?”

     The line goes dead.

     Peter looks like he’s about to throw his phone, then thinks better. He does let out a roar of frustration though. Stiles just stands there, confused.

     “What is the Triskele token?”

     Peter snorts derisively.

     “It’s a fake, cheap piece of metal. A medallion, with the Triskelion symbol on it. My sister would use it to teach the born wolves how to control themselves once puberty hit. She told them that it would serve as their anchor, due to magical properties within the metal.”

     He laughs, and lifts his hands in the air. Stiles thinks he might be slightly delirious.

     “But it’s nothing more than a hunk of metal, a placebo. The exercise proved especially helpful for Derek when he was younger. He must have told Kate about it, at some point when she was manipulating him. Whatever she is now- she must be barely clinging to control.”

     “What… What is she?” Stiles asks quietly. Her face had terrified him more than when he’d seen his first werewolf shift.

     “I don’t know,” Peter admits. “But whatever she is, she still bleeds.” He grabs Stiles’ hand and leads him to the door, grabbing the keys to the Camaro on the way. “Come on, we’re running out of time. Send a text for everyone to meet us on the main road a mile before the old house.”

     Stiles ignores the butterflies in his stomach when Peter grabs his hand, and does as he’s told.

     - - -

     So apparently the Hale’s have a vault underneath the school, because why not? Honestly, it’s a wonder that anything can surprise him at this point. Stiles has only seconds to peruse the shelves before Peter is opening the safe and pulling out the token. It’s a shame that he doesn’t have more time to look. This vault is _fascinating._

     They load back into the Camaro and head to the old Hale house. Or so he thinks.

     “What are we going to do when we get there?” He asks, mentally hyping himself up.

 _“We_ are not doing anything.” Peter says. “I’m dropping you off at the loft.”

     “What? No! I have to come, Peter. I can be useful. Kate’s always underestimated me. _I can be useful.”_ He reiterates, angry. “Allison and Lydia are going to be there. They’re human too!”

     “NO.” He growls. “You’ll be a distraction, to me and to Derek. We’ll be too concerned with keeping you safe to keep ourselves safe.” He reaches over and squeezes Stiles’ thigh. “You don’t understand Stiles, how you make us feel… what you _do_ to us.”

 _Us?_ As in Peter _and_ Derek? _Oh._ For once, Stiles is lost for words. He and Peter had kissed just fifteen minutes ago, but that had been a heat of the moment thing, right? But the way he’s talking… it makes it sound like so much more. And Derek? When the hell did Derek come into play?

     “Um… okay, yeah. Okay. I’ll hold down the fort.” He hates it, and it makes him feel like a coward. But the relieved _‘thank you’_ from Peter makes him hate it a little less.

     “Well, you both better come back in one piece, because we have some shit to discuss. I’m going to be a wreck the whole time, you know.”

     Peter smiles.

     “I know.”

     - - -

     Three minutes after Peter leaves, he’s kicking himself for agreeing to this. He paces back and forth, angry and scared. More than that, he’s pissed at himself for allowing Peter to talk him into staying behind. The logical part of his mind tells him that it’s a smart move- if he and Derek really _do_ feel that strongly about Stiles, then he doesn’t want them putting themselves in danger trying to protect him.

     The thought that they care so much about him makes his gut twist and his head feel dizzy, and a whole host of other emotions war in his mind.

     Stiles feels like he should be ashamed of himself. He just kissed a man twice his age- and technically, he’s still underage until next month. He could get Peter into a _lot_ of trouble if anyone finds out, and he doesn’t want that. Even Derek, who’s only six years older than him _(only?)_ could get into trouble.

     He chews his lip, unsure of what to do. He never thought he’d be in a situation like this. Having to choose between two men who are so much older than him. Or, letting them both go.

     He stops pacing as a thought crosses his mind.

 _“It’s different for werewolves,”_ Peter had said. _“We’d rather share a mate than lose them.”_

     And what was it that Derek had said after? _“If all parties consent, it’s very easy for us to share.”_

     Were they… _insinuating?_ Giving him a hint that he was too dense to pick up on? At the time, it had tickled something in the back of his brain, but it was like trying to connect two pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit. His subconscious had known there was more, but maybe he was too wrapped up in his own insecurities to inspect it further. Maybe he didn’t realize it was because there was an extra puzzle piece, that fit perfectly in between the two.

     Mostly, he’s confused, and he not going to be able to think straight until both of his wolves are home and safe.

     Wait.

 _His_ wolves?

     He gives his head a small shake. He needs to get out of his mind for a bit. They could be back in ten minutes or two hours. He can’t spend that long circling his thoughts without hearing the other side. It’s all speculation at this point.

     He looks around the loft. There’s blood on the floor, where Peter and Derek were shot, several bullet casings where Kate was standing when she shot at them, three bags of diner food that had been strewn across the floor, and various broken and upturned things in the loft that need to be set straight.

 _They can’t come back to this,_ he decides, and gets to work cleaning. No matter what happens, they don’t need the visual reminder of the invasion in their own den. Thank god they hadn’t installed the flooring yet.

     He fills a bucket with warm water and bleach, and grabs gloves, a towel, and a scouring brush. Kneeling down by Peter’s large pool of blood, he gets to work. While he cleans, he thinks about how well the evening had started.

 

_Stiles drove over around 8pm. His dad was working the overnight shift, and Scott was busy with Allison and Isaac. Stiles didn’t want to think about what they were busy doing. He liked showing up at the loft without calling ahead, because Derek’s and Peter’s faces always light up when they see him come through the door. Something about it made Stiles’ heart race._

_He pulled the door open, and Peter was right there on the other side. He could see Derek over his shoulder, on the far side of the loft at the large desk, looking over what was most likely plans for the renovation. He looked up and gave Stiles a lopsided smile and nodded his head before zoning back in on the blueprints._

     Nerd, _Stiles thought fondly._

_“Stiles,” Peter acknowledged with a warm smile. “I was just heading out to grab dinner. Come with me?”_

_“Yeah, sounds good.” He agreed. He turned around and they both made their way to the elevator. The time they spend together was always easy. They talk about movies, comic books, and even gossip about the pack. He shouldn’t be surprised that Peter was a huge gossip, and yet here they were._

_Derek was in the mood for the diner a few blocks down. They offer an all-natural, organic menu that appealed to the wolves. After putting their order in (Peter and Derek ordered two meals_ _each), they slid into a booth, waiting for their food, and chatted._

 _“... So Coach is_ making _us do practice with all these newbies, even though we’re not even going to be there next year!” Stiles scoffed. “But it’s whatever, it saves me a trip to the gym.” He shrugged._

_“As long as it doesn’t interfere with your year-end class scores.” Peter admonished._

_Just then, one of the waitresses came over. She was older, maybe in her early 60’s, and had that sweet granny look about her._

_“Forgive me for interrupting, hon, but I could have_ sworn _you were the Sheriff’s boy.”_

_“Oh, yeah, John is my dad.” He says with a smile._

     “Oh.” _Her eyes went slightly wide, and she looked at Peter. He gave her his signature too-toothy grin. She blushed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to- you and John make a_ lovely _couple, Sir.” And she hurried off, embarrassed._

_Stiles and Peter were both stunned into silence. Then Stiles busted out in a fit of laughter, clutching at his stomach._

_“Oh, man. She thinks- you’re Dad’s-_ boyfriend!” _He’s doubled over, gasping for breath._

_“Not the first Stilinski I’d choose.” Peter muttered, a devious glint in his eye._

_“Huh?” Stiles said stupidly, and his mouth felt dry all of a sudden._

_“Nothing,” Peter assured quickly. “So, you promise you didn’t sneak Venom with Scott? You promised Derek and I that you’d wait so we could all watch it together. Maybe tonight?”_

_And just like that, Stiles was off on a tangent. Their packaged food arrived ten minutes later (“Give John a kiss on the cheek for me, Hon.” The waitress said to Peter. Stiles had to bite down on his lips to stop from laughing again.), and they headed back towards the loft._

_Stiles was babbling away happily, and when the door to the elevators opened, Peter placed a hand on his chest, quieting him._

_“Something isn’t right.” He growled._

_Two shots sounded, and Derek’s roar cut through the air._

_“Derek!” Stiles yelled, pushing past Peter._

     “Stiles!” _Peter went to grab Stiles, but he hadn’t anticipated him running out of the elevator, and missed his hoodie by inches._

_Stiles skidded to a stop at the open loft door, taking in the scene. Derek is facing the door, kneeling, and clutching a bloody shoulder. There’s also blood flowing from a wound in his knee. He looks up with red eyes, focusing on Stiles._

     “Run!” _He growls out, but it sounded far away. Stiles wants to move, but his body won’t respond._

_There’s a woman standing in front of him, back to Stiles. She had long, dirty-blonde hair, jeans, and a leather jacket. She turned, and it was almost like slow motion. She’s holding a handgun in front of her, and trains it on Stiles as she turned. Stiles’ heart felt like it stopped. The bags of food fell from his fingers._

     Kate.

_Only, it wasn’t the Kate he remembers. Her face was blue, her eyes shone green, and she had fangs. Her face was split in a sadistic grin. She’s talking, but all Stiles could hear was the ringing in his ears. And then he was falling, shoved to the side by Peter, whose whole body shuddered with the impact of a bullet meant for Stiles._

_They fell to the floor hard, and Stiles’ head knocked against the floor. His vision is unfocused, and he couldn’t_ hear.

 

     He sits back, realizing that he’s close to hyperventilating. He’s scrubbed the same spot for two minutes. His head is starting to throb. He takes off his gloves and goes to the upstairs bathroom to grab a few Tylenol. If Derek and Peter were here, they’d just wisk the pain away. His heart clenches, and he fights tears. He needs to stay strong, for when they come back. Because they _will_ come back.

     He goes into the bathroom to find the mess he made with the first aid kit. After cleaning that up, he grabs two Tylenol and heads to the kitchen for a bottle of water. Halfway to the fridge, his eyes catch the liquor cabinet.

     He’s a bundle of nerves, and alcohol helps him unwind. He’s only drank a handful of times, but he always feels more relaxed after. It doesn’t key him up like it does with most folks. He marches over, opens the door, and grabs a bottle of whiskey. Popping the pills in his mouth, he breaks open the the cap and takes a large swing. It burns as it goes down, and heat spreads through his body as it settles in his belly.

     He closes his eyes and releases a deep sigh, enjoying the warm burn of it. With another swig, he’s already starting to feel a little better. He goes to twist the cap back on, but then decides to leave it off, bringing the bottle with him.

     He works fast, cleaning up the blood, food (it’s ruined), and few broken objects in the loft. He’s taking swigs of whiskey here and there, every time his belly stops feeling the delicious burn. He’s just thrown the final stray bullet casings in the trash, looking around the clean loft with pride, a slight stumble to his stance, when his phone buzzes.

     He fumbles to pull it out of his pocket. His eyes take a few seconds to focus on the screen, and the words sent from Peter’s phone: _Everyone made it. Kate’s dead. Be back soon._

     He leans against the wall and slides down to the floor. They made it. Everyone made it. He lets his head fall back, and feels tears roll down the sides of his face. Everyone made it. He feels like a weight has been lifted off of his chest. His breath shakes, and a tiny, relieved sob escapes his lips. _Everyone_ _made it._

     Peter and Derek are on their way back to the loft. They’re coming back, to Stiles, and he’s sure that he’s never felt so happy in his life. They’re safe, and they’re going to have a talk, because clearly there’s been some subtext that Stiles has definitely not been privy to.

     He sits there, basking in the feeling of relief for maybe ten minutes. Finally, he goes to push himself up, and _whoa,_ the floor is tilting, and it most definitely should not be tilting, floors don’t just tilt. Maybe he drank too much? No, that’s not right. He only had four… no, six drinks from the bottle. Maybe seven.

     He also hasn’t eaten since lunch though, and his stomach is running on empty. _Damnit._ He groans in frustration as he tries to get up once, twice, a third time. He’s reduced to crawling on his knees towards the coffee table and dragging himself up with that.

     “Hooray!” He exclaims once he’s standing, and throws his arms up in victory. Then he nearly falls over. He stumbles and grabs onto the couch for support. That’s better.

     The door of the loft is being pulled open, and Stiles spins to face it. _Too fast._ He gets tangled in his own feet and falls onto the couch. He pushes himself up and sits awkwardly. One leg is over the armrest, and the other is stretched out on the coffee table. He’s grabbing the back of the couch so he doesn’t fall over.

     Derek and Peter look worse for wear, but unharmed. Their clothes are bloody and ripped, but the skin underneath is unblemished. Peter is frowning at him, and he can see Derek’s nostrils flare.

     “Honeys! You’re home!” He gushes, hanging his head back and laughing. Unbridled joy swoops into his heart and fills it. They’re really safe. They’re really here.

     “Stiles. Why on earth are you _drunk?”_ Derek asks incredulously.

     “Jus’ calming my nerves.” Stiles slurs. He’s so happy they’re home. Or are they?

     “Come here, Stiles.” Peter says rolling his eyes.

     But he’s not paying attention to Peter. What if this is just a dream? What if none of this is real and he’s inside his head? He needs to count his fingers. He lets go of the couch to do just that, and promptly falls off the couch. _Ow._

     Derek and Peter are both at his side a second later, pulling him up and sitting him on the couch. Peter sits next to him, and Derek sits on the coffee table in front of him. He ignores them, and holds his hands out in front of himself, fingers splayed. Derek has to pull his head back so he doesn’t get smacked.  

_One, two…_

_“Stiles,_ talk to me. How much did you drink?” Derek urges. Stiles shushes him.

     “Gotta count.” He mumbles.

_Three, four, five…_

     “I’ll go find the bottle.” Peter sighs, getting up. Derek is observing Stiles, frowning.

_Six, nine… no, wait. Six, seven, four-_

     He shakes his head.

     “Can’t count‘m, Der. How do I know this s’real if I can’t count’m?” Tears form in his eyes. He needs to _know._

     “It’s okay Stiles, I’ll count for you. Will that help?” His voice is soothing. Stiles nods. _Please help me._

     Derek points to each finger on Stiles hand, looks directly into his eyes, and slowly starts to count them out loud. He can feel more tears well up, and they spill out and down his cheeks. _Please let this be real._

     When Derek gets to ten, Stiles sobs and throws himself at Derek, hugging him hard. Derek wraps him up in his large arms, and he feels like he’s home.

     His wolf.

     His _wolves._

     Peter is placing the bottle down on the floor and sits next to Derek, placing a hand on Stiles’ head. He lets go of Derek with one arm to grab at Peter, and shifts his body so he’s in between them now. They encompass him.

     He can feel Peter burrow his nose into his neck, and Derek does the same on the other side. They stay like this for minutes. Maybe it’s only seconds. Stiles doesn’t know, but he never wants it to end. This is where he belongs. In their arms, with them.

     His breathing starts to even, and the shudders that run through him subside. Derek pats him on the back and pulls away.

     “Come on. We all need to shower and get into some fresh clothes.” He says, standing up. Peter also lets go of him, and they help him to his feet. He’s unsteady, and has to clutch on them to keep upright.

     Stiles doesn’t think that they both need to help him, and one could easily get the job done, but he’s not about to complain. He’s soaking up the contact, and it makes a warm heat, different from the alcohol, bloom in his chest.

     They get him up the stairs with a little difficulty, and into the master bathroom- Derek’s bathroom. By this point, Stiles has done a complete one-eighty. The relief has finally set in, full force, and he’s a giddy, giggling mess.

     Peter steps into the large shower - seriously, the thing is huge. They finished the bathroom just a little over a week ago, and Stiles still can’t believe it’s a thing that exists in the loft - and starts fiddling with knobs, setting the temperature. Derek is helping Stiles get undressed, or is making a valiant effort, in the least.

     He’s trying to get Stiles’ shoes off, and Stiles isn’t helping at _all._ He’s sitting on the floor, and Derek has one shoe in his hand, trying to untie it. Stiles keeps squiggling his leg, tugging his foot away repeatedly.

     “You’re gonna _tickle_ me.” He giggles, pulling his foot away once more. Derek, bless him, just smiles at Stiles.

     “I promise I won’t tickle you, Stiles.” He says patiently. There’s none of the normal broodiness in him. All that Stiles can see right now is sweet, teddy bear softness. He giggles again. “Okay, okay, okay. I b'lieve you. I do.” He settles down a little and lets Derek remove his shoes, then his socks.

     “Arms,” Peter says from behind him, and Stiles helpfully raises them into the air so his T-shirt can be pulled up and off. When Derek’s done with the socks, he stands up and helps Stiles to his feet.

     “I need to undo your jeans, okay?” Derek pauses, his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, and looks into Stiles’ eyes. _He’s asking permission,_ Stiles realizes, and there’s no logical reason why, but it kinda makes him feel all mushy inside. He swallows thickly and nods, feeling like he’s giving permission for so much more.

     Derek nods back at him, and leads him backwards until his butt hits the counter. Stiles grips the edge. Peter has moved to the side, and is now standing behind Derek and to his left. When Derek deems him stable, he lets go of his shoulders and reaches for the button.

     “I kissed Peter.” Stiles blurts. Derek stills, and looks back at him.

     “I know. It’s okay.” He reassures.

     Stiles looks at Peter.

     “I don’t regret it.” He says quickly, smiling at Peter, who returns the favor. Stiles turns back to Derek. “It’s just… I think want to kiss you, too.” He looks down, embarrassed that he’d just revealed something so personal, something that he feels guilty for feeling.

     Derek gently grabs his chin and tilts it up until Stiles is looking at him. He leans forward, and Stiles lets his eyes flutter shut. He waits for the brush of lips against his own, but it never comes. Instead, he feels Derek press a soft kiss to his forehead. Stiles opens his eyes.

     “I will kiss you as many times as you want.” Derek whispers, and adds: “When you’re sober.”

     Then he’s back to removing Stiles’ pants. He pulls them down over his boxers, and then crouches to pull out one foot, and then the other. Stiles is clutching the counter like a lifeline. _As many times?_

     “All the times,” he declares. Derek looks up at him and cocks his head. “I want all of your kisses.” He looks up at Peter. “Yours too. They’re all mine now. They b’long to me.” He smiles smugly, like the cat who got the cream.

     Derek swallows hard and Peter’s eyes flare blue for just a second. Derek clears his throat and stands up.

     “Well… we should get ourselves undressed, too.” He walks to the corner where he’s thrown Stiles’ pants and socks, and lifts his shirt over his head. His back muscles ripple with the movement, and the Triskelion tattoo almost looks like its dancing. Or maybe that’s the booze making Stiles’ vision swim.

     He has to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe through his nose. When he opens them again, Peter and Derek are standing in front of him, naked.

     He tries not to look down, he really does, but he’s naturally curious, and _oh._ Is being hung a wolf thing, or just a Hale thing, because _damn._ And there’s nothing obstructing his view, because apparently they both shave. Stiles has for about a year now, only because he finds the thicket of hair to be highly annoying. What was he doing again…?

     He jumps and snaps his eyes back up. They’re both looking at him. Not posturing, or showing off, or shy, or anything really. They could be standing fully clothed, they way they react. Or don’t react.

     Suddenly, he doesn’t feel so confident. He can feel heat creep up his neck and paint his face. Ugh, he’s blushing, he just _knows_ it, and he wants to scrub it off like the rest of the grime on his body.

     “Locker rules!” He establishes, even though he’s already received his eyeful. Without another word, he grabs his boxers and yanks them down. Then he stumbles to the shower door and wrenches it open, rushing in and immediately slipping and pitching forward on the wet tile.

     The impact doesn’t come, and it’s because Peter has grabbed him around the waist with one strong arm and caught him before he ate it. His top half still follows through though, and he ends up on his hands, ass in the air, and yup, that’d be Peter’s dick pressed against his butt cheeks.

     Peter bends over him, pressing his stomach and chest flush against his back, to wrap his other arm around Stiles’ chest and hoist him back up. The shower stall spins, and he grasps Peter’s forearm until things settle. Peter relaxes his grip and herds Stiles to the bench that’s built into the wall. He helps him sit, and then readjusts one of the shower heads to spray directly on him. Stiles resolutely does _not_ look at his dick, that’s inches from his face.

     “Stay.” Peter says. “We’ll help you when we’re done.”

     “Mmm-hmm.” Stiles hums.

     Derek has stepped in behind them, and walks over to his own shower head. There’s dried blood crusted all over his body, centered around his shoulder and knee where he was shot. There’s also remnants of blood on his forearms. Peter steps to the shower head beside Derek, and isn’t looking much better, except his blood stains are on his stomach and back.

     Stiles stupidly realizes that he doesn’t even know what happened at the Hale house. He frowns. It’ll have to be a question for tomorrow, because his attention span is shot right now. Especially with the two of them showering in front of him.

     He sways left and right slowly, trying to focus on them. Water cascades down their muscled forms, washing away the grime and blood. He has to blink away the water getting into his eyes from his own shower head.

     Derek and Peter’s moves are fluid. Almost like that of a feline. It mesmerizes him. Sure, he’s noticed they were attractive, who wouldn’t? But he hasn’t felt this actively attract _ed_ to them. Or maybe he has? He’s been drawn to them the last month, but he chalked his feelings up to building a new friendship with them, and them playing their little game.

     He may have had some vivid, less than saintly dreams about them, but he’s also had them about Scott, and Boyd, and even Jackson, to a lesser degree, and he sure as hell isn't attracted to any of _them_. He’s curious about the male body, and the subconscious loves giving you things to blush about.

     But he can look now, right? There have been statements made tonight. Actions acted upon, and promises spoken. It sends a thrill through him.

     The way they angle their bodies, run their lathered hands up and down, almost feels like they’re putting on a show for him. _A mating dance, particular to the werewolves of Southern California. The male werewolf will display his body to a potential mate, in hopes of enamoring and lowering defenses._ He giggles to himself and almost slips off the bench. He has to plant his feet apart to catch himself.

     They both look at him, curiosity evident on their faces, not offended in the least.

     “Sorry,” He says, pointing to his temple. “National Ge’graphic givin’ me a play-by-play. Who knew they knew _so_ much ‘bout werewolf mating habits of South’rn California?”

     Derek snorts, and Peter actually laughs. Stiles grins madly, loving that he’s elicited such a response. He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of water running down his body, and he sighs happily. He thinks he might have dozed for a few minutes, and then he’s feeling a hand on either shoulder.

     He blinks a few times, and looks up. Peter and Derek are in front of him, clean of dirt, blood, and soap.

     “Come on, up you go.” Peter says, helping him to his feet to face him. He holds Stiles elbows to keep him steady. Stiles clasps his forearms.

     “Time to get you clean.” Derek says behind him, and Stiles feels a sudsy washcloth touch him. He works over his shoulders, down his arms and back, over his hips and butt, down to his feet. Them he rests the washcloth on Stiles’ forearm, and grasps his shoulders.

     Peter lets go, and takes the washcloth, cleaning his front.

     “Do you think you can stand still on your own?” Derek asks behind him. He nods. He would try to say yes, but his throat is dry, and his mouth doesn’t want to cooperate. His body is expending all of its focus on the hands that caress him, wash him, _worship_ him. He never wants this to end.

     Derek slowly lets go, and he wobbles a bit, but finds his balance. As long as he isn’t asked to walk, he should be fine. Peter’s hands are down by his belly now, rubbing small circles in the suds. His hand dips to his pelvis, and Stiles bites his lip and lets out a whimper.

     Peter places a kiss on his forehead.

     “Not tonight, Pet.” He moves the washcloth over his groin once, and then moves on to his legs. Stiles’ dick gives a half-hearted twitch, but that’s all he can muster in his drunken state.

     Then, Derek’s fingers are sinking into his hair, scritching his scalp and cleaning it. He closes his eyes and enjoys the care he’s being given.

     When he’s clean and rinsed, they all step out of the shower and towel off. Well, Derek and Peter towel off. Stiles does something that more closely resembles a losing battle with the towel. They help him though, and then it’s time for the final boss: the clothes.

     When he’s fully dry, he takes off naked, towel forgotten on the floor, and careens into the bedroom. He flops sideways, landing facedown on the California king-sized bed. The fabric of the duvet is _so so_ soft and feels amazing against his skin. He wriggles his hips, moves his arms around, and wipes his face back and forth. Any movement to feel the fabric brush against his skin.

     “Mmm,” he moans. “This blanket feels _amazing._ Wanna wrap my whole body up in it.” There’s no response, and he shifts his body so he can see them.

_Oh._

     Peter’s eyes are glowing blue, and Derek’s burn red. Maybe they don’t have as much control as he gave them credit for.

     “You need to stop scenting the bedding, Stiles,” Derek growls, a rumble deep in his chest. His voice is strained, and his hands are clenched. Stiles wouldn’t say he was scared, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel like a sheep among wolves.

     He gulps and nods his head. Peter suddenly turns and leaves the room. Did he do something wrong? Is he not supposed to be on the Alpha’s bed, _scenting_ it? Has he crossed some sort of line that he didn’t know existed?

     Derek breaks eye contact to go over to his dresser and pulls open a drawer, his back to Stiles. He grips the lip of the drawer and the wood cracks. Stiles sits up, and chews on his bottom lip. After a few seconds, Derek lets go of the drawer to grab something in it. He turns to Stiles, and there’s no anger in his face. Stiles releases a shaky breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

     Derek sits next to him on the bed, two pair of pajama bottoms in his hands.

     “We aren’t angry at you, Stiles.” He promises. He puts a pair of bottoms in front of Stiles, and start putting the second pair on. “It’s just… Peter and I have been anticipating this, and it’s proving difficult to behave ourselves, with everything that’s happened tonight.” He chuckles. “We’re _trying_ to be gentlemen.”

     He stands up, pulls his pants up over his hips, and pulls the drawstring to tie them off. He grabs Stiles’ pair, and helps him into them. Just as he’s finished tying them, Peter walks back in, dressed in his own pajama bottoms, with a T-shirt in his hand. He sits on the other side of the bed, and draws Stiles over to him. He puts the shirt over his head, and then helps him arms though. Turns out, when you have a pack at your back, clothes aren’t such an issue to get on when you’re drunk. Peter stands back up.

     “Where’re you going?” Stiles asks. “Don’ leave. Please Peter, stay.”

     Peter shushes him with a kiss to his nose.

     “I’m just going to the kitchen to get you something to eat. Derek will stay with you. I’ll be right back.” He leaves the room, and it’s just Stiles and Derek again.

     Derek sits with his back against the headboard, and Stiles lays sideways, placing his head in Derek’s lap. He massages his scalp with one hand, and it feels like the most normal thing in the world. They’ve done this before, usually when Peter is gone for the night, and it’s just the two of them. But never in Derek’s bedroom, and never with the air of intimacy that tonight holds.

     It feels nice, and Stiles finds himself drifting. All too soon, Peter is back with a tray of food. It’s heated leftovers from the Chinese they ordered two nights ago, with bottles of water and a large bowl of sliced fruit.

     He paces the tray in front of Derek and Stiles, who whines.

     “Jus’ wanna snuggle. No food.” He slurs quietly, pushing his head deeper into Derek’s lap. Peter grabs his arm and pulls him up.

     “None of that,” He says. “You have an empty belly full of whiskey. You need to eat something, and I want to see you drink at least half of that bottle of water.”

     He grumbles, but allows himself to be pulled upright. Peter and Derek box him in, and they eat in silence. Stiles is sluggish with his eating, but manages what he considers to be a good amount, before he chugs the water, using it to wash down two aspirin. His wolves finish the rest.

     Stiles gets nervous again, realizing that he’s possibly assumed too much. He had just kind of figured he’d sleep in Derek’s bed, but what if that’s not the case? What if Peter wants him to sleep in _his_ bed? Or what if they expect him to go sleep in the spare room? He doesn’t know the parameters or the dynamics of what he’s stepped into.

     Peter rests a hand on Stiles’ back.

     “What is it? You reek of anxiety all of the sudden.”

     Damn wolves and their damn sniffers.

     “I’unno…” he doesn’t want to shatter the fantasy, not yet. But Derek is looking at him too, hand on his knee. “I guess I just ‘sumed that I’d be sleeping here? I’m feelin’ like I need to be close, but to both of you. I don’ wanna have to choose.” He puts his face in his hands. He can’t choose between the two of them. He _can’t._ It’s selfish, but there it is. He doesn’t want to bounce back and forth. He wants both of them, all the time.

     “Stiles, settle down.” Derek says in a soothing voice. “No one is going anywhere. We’re all sleeping in this bed tonight.”

_Oh._

     “Well in that case, are we done eatin’? Because I’m ready to get to the snuggles.”

     He falls backwards, and smacks his head on the headboard.

 _“Ow!”_ He whines, rubbing his head. Peter snorts and Derek rolls his eyes, reaching over to snake a hand under Stiles’ shirt to press it against his belly. Stiles’ breath hitches as the dull throb in his head slowly fades. When it’s gone, Derek goes to remove him hand.

     “No!” He grabs at the hand, holding it into place. “I still need you. It. The pain sucking. Just… don’t stop touching me. Ever. _Please.”_ Derek’s face transforms into something soft and bright and it turns Stiles’ insides to mush.

     Peter grabs the tray and brings it downstairs. Derek sits next to Stiles, rubbing his thumb back and forth over his belly, tickling the little hairs of his happy trail. Stiles closes his eyes and soaks in the contact.

     When Peter returns, he grabs Stiles bridal-style and picks him up. Stiles doesn’t know what’s going on, but he grabs on to Peter’s neck and giggles, pointing his toes and throwing his head back. Then he pulls himself forward to pepper kisses along his jaw. Peter tightens his grip and clenches his teeth.

 _“Stiles,”_ he warns. “You’ve got to stop doing that, Pet, or you _will_ be sleeping in the spare room.”

     Stiles pouts, but aquieces.

     “Fine. I’ll behave m’self.” He grumbles. Peter sets him back down, and _oh,_ he had picked him up so Derek could pull the blanket and sheets back. The sheets are silk, and even with a shirt and pants, it feels amazing on his remaining naked skin. He rolls to his belly and rubs his face against the pillows, loving the feeling of it against his cheeks and nose. He inhales deeply, and catches trace scents of Derek. _Leather and pine._

     He wiggles until he’s on his back, and oops, he’s triggered his wolves again. Glowing eyes have him pinned in place, and a thrill runs down his spine.

     A bit of fang protrudes from Peter’s lip, and it’s not Stiles’ fault that he finds it hot. Their nostrils flare in unison, and Derek lets out a snarl. Peter grabs his crotch and high tails it out of the room, and Derek growls out, _“don’t move,”_ Before turning to the bathroom and closing the door behind himself. The tent in his pajama bottoms didn’t go unnoticed.

     Stiles is _really_ regretting drinking now, thinking of all of the fun they could be getting up to if he hadn’t. He whines, feeling sorry for himself. Just to be vindictive, he rolls across the bed, wiping his face across all three pillows and grinding his hips into the mattress.

     Satisfied, he settles into the middle, letting his tired eyes droop. It’s not long before the bed is dipping behind him, and Derek wraps a strong arm around his midsection, pulling him close. He buries his nose in the hair on the back of Stiles’ head and breathes in deeply.

     Stiles hums in approval and squiggles backwards until they’re flush against each other. Then the opposite side of the bed dips, and Peter is crawling in front of him, facing him and stuffing his face into the front of his neck. Stiles reaches forward and hugs him, entwining their legs together.

     It’s probably the best thing in the world, being sandwiched by the two hottest werewolves in Beacon Hills, possibly even all of California. It makes him feel worthy of love. Before he tips over the ledge to sleep, he snaps his eyes open and lets go of Peter to lift his hands up in front of him.

     Peter grabs his hands with both of his own, and kisses the tips of each finger. Derek counts as he does.

     Ten.

     Stiles lets out a shuddering sigh, and feels tears well up. _This is real._

     Exhaustion finally claims him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, two chapters in a row with intoxicated Stiles 🙈 BUT! Would you believe that most of chapter three and all of chapter four were only written during the editing phase, when I was 'done' with this fic?! The only part in the original storyline was the scene when Scott tells the three of them that him and Allison are dating Isaac, and then it went straight into this chapter.
> 
> Just some behind-the-scenes facts for you 😜


	6. First Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm feeling like a Very Bad Person™ tonight, because apparently I can't math. I KNOW I promised nine chapters and 46k words, but my dumb ass was including the first part of the series 🤦 So what we're *actually* looking at is eight chapters and 41k words. I am so so sorry to be a thief of happiness 😬

     Stiles wakes up on his back in the dark, and he is  _ overheating.  _ He moves to stretch, then immediately stops. There’s someone to the right of him, their arm over his stomach. They hug him closer, pressing their body close to his own. On the other side of him, there’s a leg slung over both of his. Flashes of last night flick through his mind. He doesn’t remember the specifics, and his brain still feels a little foggy from being drunk, but he remembers enough. 

     He remembers the Peter and Derek had almost died, and in turn, they killed Kate. He still doesn’t know how it happened.

     He remembers that he kissed Peter, and he tried to kiss Derek. He remembers that they bathed him, fed him, tucked him in. That they had to  _ leave the room  _ to jack themselves off, because he was being a drunken tease. 

_      Oh boy.  _

     Peter lifts his leg higher, and it rests directly on his bladder. Ah, he needs to use the bathroom, like  _ now.  _ There’s no way he’s going to be able to extract himself without waking them up, so he gives Derek’s arm a gentle shove. 

     “Gotta pee.” He mumbles. Derek sleepily tightens his hold, nuzzles into his neck, and settles back down. 

_      “Seriously _ , dude. I will piss in this bed, I swear.”

     Peter snorts from his other side, and moves his leg, freeing Stiles. He’s able to push the dead weight of Derek’s arm off of him. Derek growls slightly, but lets him up. He pushes the covers down enough to pull his legs free, and then crawls down the center of the bed and gets to his feet. 

_      Whoa.  _ He’s still feeling the residual alcohol in his system. He’s not drunk anymore, but he’s slightly tipsy. He wonders where the headache he usually starts feeling about now is, but then realizes that one of them have probably been sapping him all night.

     He stumbles blindly towards the bathroom door. The only light in the room is what’s barely filtering through the windows, because why would a werewolf need nightlights? He stubs his pinky toe on the dresser, and grunts in pain. 

     “Watch out for the bureau.” Peter mumbles unhelpfully. 

     “Dick.” He mutters, bending down to rub the ache out of his toe. He gets into the bathroom and closes the door behind himself. He flicks the light switch on, and squints at the brightness. 

     This is ridiculous. He’s buying them a nightlight. He won’t be spending nights if he has to be blinded every time he needs to take a piss in the middle of the night. 

     Wait. 

     What is he thinking? Spending nights? That’s definitely the way this  _ seems to be  _ headed, but how awfully presumptuous of his subconscious. Stiles doesn’t understand how he can feel so sure about something, but he does. They wouldn’t be cuddling him in Derek’s bed if they didn’t want something more, right? And from what he can remember from snippets of conversation last night, they’ve been anticipating this. 

     And just like that, he’s giddy and wide awake. He needs to know exactly what this is, like  _ now.  _ There’s still lingering unresolved sexual tension in him, and the fact that he’s still a bit tipsy gives him that extra boost of confidence.

     Okay. So he’s doing this. And if it doesn’t happen how he wants it to, that’s fine too. Well, it wouldn’t be fine, and he probably won’t be able to show his face in the loft ever again, but he’ll deal with that scenario if or when it happens. 

     He shakes his arms out and takes a deep breath. Let’s see how these wolves play. 

     He walks back out into the bedroom, and he’s pretty much blind after the glare of the bathroom lights. He minds the dresser, and gets slightly lost after that. He knows the general direction of the bed, but he’s loathe to stub a toe again. Stiles doesn’t need to worry though, because the scent of his  arousal must have wafted over to the bed. Two glowing sets of eyes, one blue and one red, light up in the dark. So that’s where they are. 

     He makes his way to the foot of the bed, and crawls on. He realizes from where their eyes are, that they’re both sitting up. His own eyes are starting to adjust though, and he can make out bits and pieces of their faces. He stops in front of them and sits back on his heels. 

     They’re waiting for him to make the first move, he realizes. This would be so much easier if they would take the wheel. But he guesses it makes sense, in their minds. They’re both considerably older than him, given that he’s still technically a minor. 

     He grabs the bottom hem of his shirt -  _ Peter’s  _ shirt - and lifts it over his head. That must have been the signal they were waiting for, because while the fabric is still over his face, he feels the bed shifting. When he tugs it off, blue eyes are in front of him, and Peter is kneeling in front of him, grabbing his face with both hands, and pressing a crushing kiss to his lips. Stiles hums in pleasant surprise, which quickly turns into a moan. He opens his lips and Peter pushes his tongue forward, caressing and tasting him. He grips at Peter’s thighs, twisting the fabric of the pajamas in his fists. 

     He only has a moment to wonder about Derek, before he feels his muscled chest press against his back. He kneels behind Stiles, placing his legs on either side of him, boxing him in. Derek settles his hands on either side of Stiles’ hips, digging his fingers in. He licks a long strip up the side of his neck, then clamps his teeth at Stiles’ nape. 

     A shiver runs down Stiles’ spine and settles in his groin. Tremors run up and down his entire body. His nerves are hypersensitive to every touch, every movement, and he feels like he’s going to vibrate right out of his skin. He has a sensory flashback of what it felt like to be touched when he was on ecstasy. 

     “Tell us what you want.” Derek murmurs against the shell of his ear. Peter gives up his mouth in favor of dragging his teeth down Stiles’ jaw. 

     “You. Both of you.” He already sounds completely wrecked, and they’ve barely even begun. Doubt creeps in. “Can I…  _ can _ I have both of you?” 

     “You’ve had both of us, for a while now, pet.” Peter says, peppering his jaw with nips and kisses. 

     “We’re yours, if you’ll be ours.” Derek says behind him, gripping his hips tighter and rolling his own, pressing his erection against Stiles’ back. 

     Stiles feels like it goes without saying, but he says it anyways. 

     “Yes. I’m yours. You’re mine.  _ My wolves.” _

     The declaration elicits a response that Stiles didn’t anticipate. Both wolves growl, the noise coming from deep within their chests. The rumbles send delicious vibrations through him, and he groans at the sensation. Derek ruts hard against him, and he’s shoved forward into Peter. 

     Peter moves with the momentum, and pulls Stiles with him. Stiles lets out a yelp, giggling, and settles between his legs. He grinds against Peter, gasping at the pleasure that zings through him, and kisses his chest. Derek isn’t pressed flush against him anymore, but instead is dragging his hands up and down his sides, trailing kisses on his spine. 

     “Tell us what you want, Stiles.” Derek says again, nipping and licking at his skin. “We can go fast or as slow.”

     Peter grabs at his face and draws him back up. 

     “You’re in control.” He whispers before capturing his bottom lip with his teeth, pulling it gently. Stiles groans and his hips give an involuntary jerk.

     Are they really going to make him spell it out? He’s certainly loquacious enough in everyday life, but saying what he wants out of an encounter, sexually? It’s surprisingly hard to voice. He swallows past his embarrassment, and reminds himself that they want this just as much as he does. Being buzzed certainly isn’t hurting, either. 

     “I wanna-” He grinds against Peter hard, and Peter responds with a hiss through clenched teeth. “Can we do it like this? Can I fuck you?” He asks breathlessly. 

     Peter’s eyes glow and he hums. Stiles takes it as an affirmative. He sits up, back on his heels again, and turns his head to Derek, who’s wrapped his arms around Stiles’ chest. 

     “And can you fuck me?” Derek lifts a hand to grasp Stiles’ chin, pulling his head back,  and leans forward to kiss him. 

     This kiss is different than Peter’s. Peter’s kisses have more of a primal heat to them. Derek’s feel more caressing, more tender. It’s passion of a different kind. He melts into the kiss, body going relaxed. He reaches back to hold Derek’s face. His stubble prickles at Stiles’ hand and cheek, and he loves it. 

     Peter is leaning over and grabbing something from the side table drawer. Stiles breaks away from Derek to turn and look at him.

     “Turn on the lamp, too.” He says. He can see just barely, and he wants to be able to see everything. The light clicks on, and it’s a nice, soft glow. Now he can properly see Peter stretched out, grabbing a tube of lube from the drawer. He has a sizable tent in his pajamas and Siles feels his mouth water. Peter leans back and holds up the tube, propping himself up with an elbow. 

     “Do I need to talk you through this?” He asks, eyebrow arched. Stiles lets out a giddy laugh. 

     “I’m seventeen in the age of technology, Peter. I’ve probably watched more porn than you and Derek combined.” He grabs the tube confidently. “Just, let me know if I’m doing something that you don’t like, yeah?”

     “Stiles, you could fuck me with a pike and I’d still find it enjoyable.” Peter says darkly. And damn, there’s no good reason why that should turn him on so much, yet here we are. 

     Peter lays back down and goes to take his pants off. 

     “No.” Stiles stops him. “I want to.” 

     Peter’s lip twitches upwards, and he holds his hands up before crossing them underneath his head. Stiles places the tube next to him on the bed and grabs either side of his pants. Derek moves behind him, giving him space to shift. 

     He pulls the top down slowly, taking in an eyeful of Peter’s hard cock as he does. When the tip is free, it springs up and slaps against his stomach. Peter picks his hips up and Stiles pulls the back down past his ass. He feels like he’s unwrapping a present. Peter lifts his legs so Stiles can remove the pants without moving too much, before setting them back down on either side of him. 

     And there he is. Naked, legs splayed, without the slightest hint of embarrassment. He wonders if he really can keep up with them. Sure, he’s curious, and he’ll try anything once, but they’re a whole hell of a lot more experienced than him. What if they find him boring? 

     “Stiles, stop thinking.” Derek kisses his nape, and brushes his hands against his stomach. “Just do what feels natural, and we’ll fall in line.” 

     Stiles clears his throat and nods. Yes, he can do this. He just needs to take control, forget his insecurities. He’s  _ not  _ going to screw this up. 

     With renewed vigor, he grabs a pillow from next to Peter’s head. 

     “Lift your butt.” He says, and Peter obliges. He slides the pillow under, and that’s better. He grabs the lube and squeezes probably more than necessary on his fingers. He turns to hand it to Derek. 

     “I won’t need it just yet.” Derek says, and licks his lips suggestively.  _ Oh.  _ The noise Stiles makes could probably be described as a strangled whine. But that wouldn’t be manly, so he’s going to pretend it was a throaty growl,  like the wolves do. 

     “Okay.” He says, breathless. He’s not sure how long he’s going to last. His dick is already straining in his pants, near-painful, but not quite there yet. He takes a deep, shuddering breath to try and calm himself. He turns back to Peter, and tosses the lube next to him on the bed. 

     “Ready?” He asks. 

     Peter grins. 

     “Just waiting on you, pet.” 

     Stiles’ hand is trembling. He gulps. Derek’s hand moves lower on his stomach and snakes it under the waistband of his pants. He wraps his hand around Stiles’ dick, and Stiles whimpers. This is the first time anyone has touched him, and it’s definitely different than his own hand. Derek’s palm is rougher, but not in an uncomfortable way. His hips jerk forward of their own accord, and the drag of Derek’s hand against his skin has Stiles groaning in bliss. 

     He finally places his slicked middle finger against Peter’s hole and rubs it in a circle. He slides it in slowly. He’s not going to pretend like he hasn’t fingered himself before, so he’s familiar with what the inside of an ass feels like, but it’s strange when it’s someone else’s. And the angle is all different, but in a good way. He sinks his finger in as deep as it will go, and slowly pulls it back out. 

     “You don’t need to be gentle.” Peter strains. His hands aren’t underneath his head anymore, but balled up beside him, grabbing handfuls of the blanket. “Werewolf healing.”

     Stiles gets the feeling that Peter’s a rough lover, and not just because of his werewolf abilities. The thought sends a thrill through him. Something to explore later on down the road.

     Taking his advice, he adds a second finger. The stretch is more pronounced, and it’s a tight fit, but Peter just hums. He grabs the base of Peter’s cock with his free hand. 

     “Can I suck you off?” He asks, then bends over to flick the head with his tongue, not waiting for an answer. Peter growls. Stiles looks up, and thinks he sees a hint of fang. Oh god, he’s quickly developing a werewolf kink, because disarming someone enough to partially shift? It’s a heady thing. 

     Derek lets go of his dick and gently pulls at his hips. Stiles moves so that he’s on his knees and elbows, with his ass in the air. He’s moving his two fingers in and out of Peter at a (still slow, but) quicker pace, and he sucks the head of his cock into his mouth. 

     There’s the slightly sweet taste of precum, but not much taste other than that. He experiments, swirling his tongue around the head. Peter groans and wiggles his hips, alternating between pushing down on Stiles’ fingers and thrusting shallowly into his mouth. 

     Behind him, Derek pulls his pants down over his butt and thighs. He grabs both of Stiles’ ass cheeks with his large hands, and parts them. He feels his tongue slide over his hole, and he pops off of Peter’s cock to press backwards, chasing the sensation. Derek licks him again, and this time keeps his tongue there, pressing against him. Stiles moans and rests his forehead on Peter’s thigh. 

     There’s so much going on at once, and he’s finding multitasking to be difficult at the moment. As compensation, he adds a third finger to Peter. 

     Derek’s tongue pushes forward, and Stiles can feel it breaching the tight ring of muscle. He tells himself to relax. He moves his mouth back onto Peter’s cock, using it as a distraction. 

     He takes him as deep as he can, until he starts to gag, and marks the spot with his fist. Then he starts a pace, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head, using his hand as a guard so he doesn’t take him in to far. He’s twisting his other hand left and right, spearing Peter with his fingers. 

     Behind him, Derek’s tongue is as deep as he can push it, and it feels amazing. He’s not going to last much longer like this. He pulls off of Peter’s cock. 

     “I think I’m ready. I need- I want-  _ fuck.”  _ He pushes himself back onto Derek’s tongue. Derek pulls away, and gives his ass cheek a nip before straightening up on his knees. He pulls at the pants still bunched at Stiles’ knees, and Stiles moves to accommodate him. Derek pulls them off and throws them somewhere off to the side. 

     He can feel the bed move behind him as Derek takes off his own pants, and then his hands are back on Stiles’ hips, kneading his skin. He leans over, pressing his chest against Stiles’ back, and grabs the lube. 

     “Peter’s waiting for you, Stiles.” Derek says behind him. 

_      Oh.  _ Yeah, that makes sense. He’ll enter Peter, and then Derek can enter him. He leans over Peter and chews his bottom lip. Peter reaches up and pulls at it with his thumb until his teeth release it. Then he pulls Stiles’ face forward and brushes his lips with his own. 

     “Everything will be okay, pet.” Peter purrs. Stiles nods. Derek tosses the lube back down next to him, and Stiles leans back to squirt some on his hand and run it up and down his shaft. He rubs the head of his dick up and down a few times on Peter’s hole, spreading the lube around. The action elicits a groan from Peter, and he plants his feet on the bed to make small thrusts in the air. 

_      “Fuck,  _ Stiles I need you.” He sighs, and damn, Stiles needs him too. He pushes forward, and the head is slowly breaching the hole, which opens to accommodate him. He stares in wonder where he disappears into Peter. He takes it slow, pushing in half an inch, then pulling back, then pushing forward again. 

     Apparently, he’s going too slow for Peter’s liking, because with a growl, he digs his nails into Stiles’ ass cheeks and pulls him forward roughly. Stiles sinks to the hilt, and he lets out a gasp at the same time that Peter moans. 

     It feels… wow. Hot, and silky, and slick, and it’s easily one of the best things he’s ever experienced. He falls down over Peter, bracketing his head between his forearms, and bites at his bottom lip, pulling it back with a little growl of his own. Without pulling out, he swivels his hips, and zings of pleasure shoot through his whole body. 

     Peter arches up to Stiles, wrapping his arms around him to grasp at his back. The nails are a tad too pointy to be completely human, and Stiles feels pinpricks of pain that mingle with the pleasure. 

_      “Peter,”  _ Derek growls, and Peter flattens his hands to grab with the pads of his fingers instead. 

     He feels Derek’s tongue at his hole again, and he drops his head to the crook of Peter’s neck, pushing backwards. His dick drags out of Peter, and he’s gasping again at the sensation. He thrusts back in, his hips bucking forward on their own, and he has to stop. 

     “Derek, not gonna last-  _ fuck-”  _ that’s all he can manage, but Derek gets the hint. He feels the tip of Derek’s slicked cock brush against his hole. He pushes in slowly, and Stiles has a moment of fear as the feeling of stretching doesn’t abate. What if Derek’s too big? He panics a little, and pulls forward, burying himself further into Peter with a small whimper. 

     Derek stills, and Peter grabs either side of his face. 

     “If you want to stop, Stiles, we can. We won’t be angry.” He’s looking directly into Stiles eyes, and Stiles believes him. But he  _ wants  _ this. He’s just a little apprehensive. 

     “No, I want this, guys. I really do. Distract me?” He asks. 

     “It would be my pleasure,” Peter replies, looking behind Stiles to Derek, nodding. Then, without warning, he bites Stiles’ shoulder and clenches his ass at the same time. Stiles lets out a cry, the dual sensation of pleasure and pain sending his nerves into overdrive, and he’s only minutely aware of Derek slowly surging forward, until he’s bottomed out. 

     And it wasn’t so bad. He’d been hyping himself up over nothing. But now he feels so  _ full,  _ and he groans, savoring the intrusion. The three of them are still for a handful of seconds, while Stiles’ body acclimates. When he feels more relaxed, he pushes back, and then forward, rocking between his wolves, testing. He only has an inch or two of leeway, because Derek is pushed right up against him. 

     This is probably the best feeling in the world, he decides. If he can simultaneously fuck someone while being fucked every day for the rest of his life, he’ll die a happy man. 

     “Are you ready?” Derek asks behind him, rubbing his hands up and down his sides. 

_      “God, yes,  _ Der. Fuck me.”

     Derek grabs his hips firmly, and slowly pulls out until the head is the only thing inside Stiles, and then pushes back in. Stiles keeps his hips still, feeling it out, and he relaxes in increments. When he feels more comfortable, he pulls out of Peter again, and thrusts back in. Peter moans his name, and it’s the most filthy thing that Stiles has ever heard. He  _ loves  _ it. His hips buck involuntarily, and Peter’s lips twitch, quickly catching on. 

     He moans his name again, and Stiles doesn’t know how it can possibly be more obscene than the first time, but it is. Stiles picks up the pace, and Derek follows suit. 

     It’s not long before they’ve worked up a rhythm, and the room is filled with ragged breathing, moans, and strings of clipped phrases. Derek’s blunt fingers dig into his hips, and he can’t  _ wait _ to see the bruises that will surely be there in the morning. Stiles movements are becoming stuttered and erratic. He feels like he’s coiled as tightly as he’ll go, and he’s about to unravel at the seams. 

     His hand is still slick with lube, and he moves to give himself just enough space to snakes it in between their bodies, grabbing hold of Peter’s cock and jerking it in long tugs. 

     Stiles isn’t surprised that he’s the first one to come; the whole situation was rigged against him since the beginning. His hips snap forward hard, and comes with a cry, pumping Peter full. The thought alone is hot, but actually doing it? He tries to keep up on Peter’s cock, but he’s pretty sure he whites out for a second, overcome with intense pleasure.

     Then Derek is wrapping his arms around his chest, pulling him upright, and jackhammers into him. He’s fallen out of Peter, and Peter grabs his own cock, stroking it fast as he drinks in the sight of Stiles speared on Derek.

     Derek fucks into him hard and fast, and he moans, his breath punched out of him with every thrust. He feels like a rag doll along for the ride, and rides out his pleasure as Derek chases his own. He brings Stiles down one more time, and stills with a rumbling grunt. Stiles can feel Derek’s cock twitch, spilling deep inside him. He grabs hold of Stiles’ chin and twists his head so he can give him a sloppy, hot kiss, complete with a probing tongue. 

     Peter is the last, and he lets out a strangled shout as he spurts cum over his stomach and hand. Stiles breaks away from Derek to look at Peter. He looks wrecked, panting heavily and lying there with his cum cooling on his stomach. Stiles’ cum is dripping out of him, and Stiles feels a flare of smug possession radiating through him. 

     He’s heavily scented by Derek, but he doubts that he smells much like Peter. He wonders if cum scenting is really a thing? Only one way to find out. He chews his lip for a second, before reaching out and spreading his hand in the sticky mess. 

     Peter’s breath hitches as he drags his hand through, and then, keeping his eyes trained on Peter’s, very deliberately rubs it across his own stomach, massaging it into his skin. The reaction is immediate. 

     Peter drops fang, and his brow thickens. He sits up fast and grabs Stiles roughly by the nape. Stiles holds his gaze. 

     “Do you have  _ any  _ fucking idea what that does to my wolf?” Peter groans through thick teeth. 

     Stiles grins mischievously. 

     “I have an inkling,” He says, jutting his chin out. 

     Peter closes his eyes and breathes deeply until his features return to normal. As soon as he’s human again, he captures Stiles’ mouth with his own in a heated kiss. Derek is still inside him, but softening. He’s softly biting the flesh of Stiles’ shoulders. 

     Peter pulls away. 

     “How was that, pet? Was it okay?” 

     Stiles throws his head back and genuinely laughs. 

_      “Okay?  _ Guys. That right there was the highlight of my fucking  _ life.  _ Y’all can fuck me senseless whenever the hell you want to. I never wanted it to end.” Of course, his insecurity chooses then to creep in. “And… you two? Did I do okay?”

     “You did fabulous.” Peter says, pressing their foreheads together and rubbing the tip of his nose against Stiles’. 

     “Can’t get enough of you,” Derek says from behind him, running his own nose through Stiles’ hair. 

     He basks in their touches for a few more seconds, before Derek slips out of him, and he feels cum leaking out of him. He squirms. 

     “I could probably fall asleep right now, but I’m feeling like a shower might be the prudent choice.”

     They make quick work of cleaning themselves off, and Peter strips the bed while Stiles and Derek lazily make out against the wall. Then they swap, and Derek sets the bed with new sheets while Peter peppers Stiles with licks, nips, and bites across his collarbones. 

     Stiles would really love to go a second time, but he’s dog tired, and his ass aches. It’s a delicious ache, but an ache all the same. A dull throb is starting to weed its way into his head, but Peter sucks the pain from him, leaving him feeling loose and exhausted. 

     They crawl back into bed, naked this time, and it’s a tangle of limbs. They go to sleep without another word spoken. 

     Stiles doesn’t feel obligated to count his fingers in the least. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads up so y'all aren't blind-sided, chapter seven (the next chapter) will be the last full-length chapter. Chapter eight is about half-length.


	7. Public Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I made an aesthetic for this! I've posted it to chapter one, but anyone who's been reading chapter-by-chapter won't see it, so I'm also popping it here too just for my subscribers 😘 
> 
> __

_      Present day _

Stiles fills his dad in on what happened the night before, leaving out the more intimate details. Derek and Peter have moved to other parts of the loft, Derek at the large planning desk, and Peter at the kitchen island. They both know that the wolves are listening, but neither of them mention it. Basically, he tells his dad that he was kidnapped, he called Peter and Derek, and they came to the rescue. His dad doesn’t look impressed in the least. 

“You should have just called me. This wasn’t a supernatural situation. It should have been handled by the law.”

“Dad,” Stiles said. “They probably would have killed you, and me, and any other backup you might have brought. They let me see their  _ faces.  _ They were stupid, but I don’t think they were that stupid.” 

His dad purses his lips, clearly not agreeing, but also not finding it worth an argument after the fact. 

“So what do the guys over at Jefferson County think?” Stiles asks. 

“They think that a rival gang released some sort of wild animal on them. I saw the pictures. It was a bloodbath, son.” He scrubs a hand up and down him face. “But there are no leads, and I doubt anything will lead back to you. They know that there’s a member of theirs locked up at BHSD, but it’s not anything that would warrant a suspicious eye.” 

He reaches out and gently touches Stiles’ bruised chin with the back of his knuckles. 

“It doesn’t hurt.” Stiles promises. “They’ve been draining the pain since last night.” His voice drops lower, and he looks at his hands. “They take good care of me, Dad. I know this probably isn’t the relationship that you pictured for your son, but I’m happy. I really am. I feel complete. Whole. Safe. They feel like home.”

He looks up, and sees both Derek and Peter looking back at him, affection written all over their faces. His dad sees it too. He sighs. 

“You know I love you no matter what, son. It’ll just take some getting used to.” His hand drops, and he chews the inside of his lip. Stiles knows that this can’t be easy for him, and really appreciates his support, even if it didn’t surface until a bout of rage.

“You know what this means,” his dad continues, with a smirk. He doesn’t catch on at first, but then-

“Dad,  _ no.”  _ Stiles says, horrified. 

“Oooh, yes. It’s what we agreed on before your freshman year.”

Stiles makes a strangled noise and throws himself back on the couch, covering his face with his hands. 

“I agreed to that when I thought it would be Lydia.” He mumbles through his hands. 

“What is this?” Peter asks from the island in a curious tone. 

“You’re coming over for dinner.” John says.  _ “Both  _ of you. _ ”  _

Stiles moans into his hands dramatically. 

_      “And,”  _ His dad continues. “Stiles here is going to prepare a presentation as to how he intends on providing for you.”

Can the couch suck him in any deeper? Is it possible? Maybe a hole can just open up in the floor and swallow him whole. Either would be good. 

“In our original agreement, he was to present it to the parents-”

_      “Lydia’s  _ parents!” He interjects. His dad keeps going. 

“-But this is obviously a different case. So  _ I’m  _ thinking, he’s going to present it to the pack. If he’s going to be dating the Alpha,  _ and _ the Alpha's Left Hand, he’s got to have the support of the pack behind him.”

Peter makes a thoughtful noise. 

“How did you know I was Derek’s second? That’s not even something we’ve discussed with the pups.”

John snorts. 

“I’m the Sheriff, remember? Observing, and then picking apart those observations, is something I excel at.”

Stiles looks through his hands at Derek. He looks impressed, and is giving his father an appraising look.  _ Ugh.  _

“Fine! I’ll do it. But if I do, I don't want to hear  _ anything  _ negative from you about dating two older men. At the same time. Understood?” He points to his dad, trying to lace his words with authority. His dad purses his lips, and looks like he might say something else, but all he ends up doing is narrowing his eyes and nodding. “Good. Now,  _ out.  _ I’m sure you have a whole police report to write up, or bury, or whatever it is you do with your police stuff. I have to finish my breakfast.”

His dad stands, and so does Stiles. He isn’t surprised by the crushing hug that follows. This was a lot for his dad to take in, and he’s kind of surprised that he took it as well as he did. He would almost feel compelled to count his fingers, if that was still a thing he did.

“I love you, son.” He mumbles next to Stiles’ ear. 

“Love you too, Dad.” He replies, squeezing him a little tighter. His dad lets go and steps back. 

“I’ll see you boys next Saturday then. My house. We’ll do a cookout.” He starts towards the door, then stops and turns. “I know I don’t need to tell you that Chris has supplied me with wolfsbane bullets.”  _ Then  _ he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. 

Derek lets out a breath that he was apparently holding, and Peter tosses the paper to the side. 

“Well,” He says, standing and stretching his arms over his head. “I’d say that went well.” 

Stiles sticks his tongue out at him, in a childish move. Derek steps over to Stiles, and grabs his shoulders with both hands. 

“How are you?” He asks, looking into Stiles’ eyes, kneading the muscles underneath his hands. 

“Good, I think.” He answers honestly. “Did my dad just give us his blessing? Presentation withstanding?”

Peter saunters over, a quirk to his lips. 

“I’d say yes. It’s strange. I’ve never been so intimidated by a man my own age, and yet seek their approval at the same time. You make me feel twenty years younger, pet.” He jokes, walking around behind him and pushes his front flush against Stiles’ back, and places little kisses on his nape. “Now, where were we? After we agreed that you were moving in?”

Stiles lets out a sigh and tilts his head back and the the side, giving Peter access to his pulse point. Derek takes advantage of his front, capturing his lips in a kiss. And just like that, it’s like a light switch has flipped. He’s in this newfound sexual zone that he loves so much. 

Two months doesn’t sound like a long time on paper, but that’s sixty days. Sixty days to a horny, curious teenager and  _ werewolves -  _ with their unfair refractory periods and their primal desires - might as well be a lifetime. 

He never thought he’d be as adventurous during sex as he’d found himself to be. Of course, he had mostly pictured his sex life would be with one female. Lydia, specifically. And in most of his fantasies,  _ he _ was pleasing  _ her.  _

His sexual persona is a complete one-eighty from his normal personality. He’s demanding, confident, and not afraid to put his needs first. He rarely directs his wolves anymore, though. They had quickly picked up on what he liked, and they were eager to please him. 

He groans into Derek’s mouth, and it elicits a deep rumble from within the wolf’s chest. With each kiss, he can feel them drawing out the residual aches that have been creeping up on him.

Stiles is in a playful mood, though. He squiggles out of their grasps and takes off for the stairs. 

“Chase me!” He yells behind him, laughing. As he rounds the stairs, he catches sight of Peter’s eyes glowing blue, a dark smile playing in his lips. Derek is already moving, poised to leap to the top of the stairs. “Don’t forget to lock the door, Derek!” 

He laughs at the responding snarl as Derek changes course, rushing to lock the door. Stiles is running down the hallway to the master bedroom, heart racing, when a hand catches his bicep and he’s pulled back, then shoved into the wall right before the door. 

Peter crushes his lips against Stiles’ and ruts against his thigh. The thin pajama bottoms leave nothing to the imagination. Stiles twines his fingers of both hands into Peter’s hair and presses forward eagerly. Peter allows himself to be pushed against the far wall, and Stiles takes the lead. He licks a long strip up Peter’s neck, and Peter groans, head falling back to hit the wall. 

Then Derek is crowding behind him, pressing the outline of his cock against the crack of Stiles’ ass, grabbing his hips so he can grind harder. Stiles pulls away from Peter so he can speak. 

“Fuck. Love your cock against my ass,  _ mate.” _

The use of the title has Derek snarling and he ruts against him so hard that Stiles is pushed past Peter and slams his forehead into the wall. 

He loses his balance and has to let go of Peter’s head to grab ahold of his biceps so he doesn’t fall. He drops his head on Peter’s shoulder and laughs. Peter stiffens beneath him, and Derek quickly lets go. 

“What gives?” He chuckles, and lifts his head. Peter’s shoulder is slick. He opens his eyes, and sees it smeared with blood.  _ Um, excuse me? _ He stands straight and lifts a hand to where his head knocked against the wall. There’s a gash, and his finger slips on the mess that’s now streaming down his face. 

“Seriously, is this even real life right now?” He complains, pushing his palm against the cut to staunch the flow. Today is officially the most cock-blocky day on planet Earth, mark your calendars. Derek spins him around to inspect the wound. 

“I’m so sorry Stiles.” He says, voice laced with concern as pulls away his hand to prod at the cut, before quickly placing his hand back. “Does it hurt?” Behind him, Peter is grabbing the bottom hem of Stiles’ shirt and pulling it up. Stiles lifts his arms so he can pull it off of him, and Peter passes it to Derek, who balls it up and presses it against the wound. 

“Nah,” Stiles says, in response to his question. “I think because you guys have been doing your pain-sucky thing? But let’s do other sucky things.” He tries to grab at Derek’s crotch, but Derek bats his hand away with annoyance. 

“Stiles, this is at least an inch-and-a-half long. You hit your head  _ hard.  _ It needs to be dealt with.”

_      “You  _ hit my head hard.” He grumbles.  Derek’s eyebrows knit together in guilt.  _ Oh boy. Let’s backtrack.  _ “It’s a hazard of the occupation. This isn’t the first bump or bruise I’ve gotten fucking you two silly, and it certainly won’t be the last. Because I’ll be damned if I let you two treat me like a delicate flower.”

“But you  _ are  _ a delicate flower,” Peter says behind him, dragging his nose and lips up the back of his neck. Stiles moans. 

“Peter.” Derek admonishes. Stiles pouts. “Stiles, we might have to bring you to the hospital. This is a serious cut.”

_      “What?!”  _ He squawks, flailing his arms wildly. “That’s a big  _ hell no,  _ Derek. Just let me bleed to death, save me from dying of embarrassment.”

“They don’t need to know the details,” Peter supplies helpfully. “Just tell them that you tripped over your own two feet. Being you, it’s a believable cover story.” Now that wasn’t helpful at all. He pushes his ass back into Peter’s still hard cock and swivels his hips as punishment. Peter growls and roughly grabs his hips. 

_      “Peter.”  _ Derek flashes his eyes. 

“It was  _ him!”  _ Peter sputters. Stiles laughs. 

“Stop it, both of you.” Derek growls. 

“Yes,  _ Mom.”  _ Stiles snides. 

Derek lifts the shirt to peek under it, then pushes it back. 

“It’s not letting up. You’re going to have to go in.”

“Can’t you or Peter just sew me up? Seriously. I won’t feel a thing.”

Derek gives him his signature ‘I’m the Alpha, you gotta do what it say’ look. Like that shit works on Stiles. He opens his mouth to argue, when Derek’s head tilts slightly to the side. 

“Looks like you won’t need to go in after all.” There’s a knock at the door. “You can get it.” He grabs Stiles’ hand and holds it against the shirt, until Stiles pushes against it himself. Then Derek steps back, and Stiles heads down the stairs to the door. He opens it, and his dad is standing there. 

“I must have left my phone- what in the  _ hell _ happened to you, Stiles? I’m gone for five damn minutes.”

“Fell? Yeah, I fell. All by myself. And brained myself on the wall. I tripped over my feet. I fell.” If him tripping over his words doesn’t give him away, the blush he feels creeping up his neck and face most certainly does. His dad holds up both his hands. 

“I don’t want to know.” He says, stepping into the loft and closing the door behind him. He reaches for the T-shirt and pulls it away gently to inspect the cut. “Stiles, you’re going to need stitches.”

“And you’re here! So you can do it! Yaaay!” He jazz-hands his free hand. 

His dad pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“That is so beyond unsanitary. No, you’re going to the hospital.” 

“But  _ Dad! _ You can’t make me. I’m an adult!” He stomps his foot to drive his point home. 

“You’re going, and that’s final.” Derek says behind him. He yelps and spins around. 

“Don’t sneak up on a guy like that! You’ll give me a heart attack before I’m thirty!”

His dad snorts and gives Derek a nod of approval. 

“Come on, I'll drive you. Get your hoodie.”

“Peter, you gonna let them push me around?” Stiles yells to the general direction of the stairs. 

“I’m not going to argue against my Alpha or the Sheriff,” comes his cowardly voice. Stiles huffs. 

“You all suck.” He grabs his hoodie and manages to get it on while holding the T-shirt against his head. Then he slips his shoes on. “Guess I’ll see you losers later.”

\- - - 

“Are you  _ really  _ going to make me do the presentation?” He asks his dad once he pulls out onto the main street. 

“Nah.” His dad replies. “Just wanted to see you sweat a bit.” He looks over at Stiles with a big grin on his face. Stiles is less amused. 

“They’re good for me Dad, really.” He says quietly. His dad sighs, resigned. 

“I know, son. It’s just hard. You’ve been talking about Lydia for years now, and this thing that you have with the Hales… it’s a complete one-eighty that blindsided me.”

“Blindsided me too.” He has a goofy grin on his face. 

They get to the hospital, and of  _ course  _ Melissa is on duty. She whisks them into a room immediately, worry clearly written on her face. 

“Stiles, honey! What on earth happened?” He fingers are skirting over his jaw, his split lip, and his wrists. She pulls the shirt back to reveal the cut that’s no longer bleeding. “This cut is new, but these other injuries are at least twelve hours old.” She rubs a hand over his hair. “What happened? Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Stiles has always thought of Melissa like a second mom. And right now, with her worrying over him, it makes his heart clench painfully and feel full at the same time. His dad clears his throat. 

“He was kidnapped by drug dealers yesterday, and decided to let his pack deal with it instead of the adults.”

“Hey! Derek and Peter are adults!” He argues. 

“Barely, with the way they act.” His dad turns to Melissa. “They’re responsible for the fresh cut on his forehead.”

_      “DAD!” _ He feels his face flush. For the love of god. Melissa looks confused. “Please,  _ please  _ don’t ask. And don’t tell Scott!” He adds quickly, then winces. That seems to give her more information than he meant to. Her eyebrows raise in speculation. He groans and buries his face in his hands.

“Just stitch me up, please.” He mumbles into his hands. 

“I’ve gotta go in to work, kiddo. Talk to the guys up in Jefferson County and try to steer them towards a plausible conclusion. Get one of those Hale boys to pick you up when you’re done here.”

Melissa is gently pulling his hands away from his face. He rolls his eyes at his dad. 

“Peter is like, two years younger than you, Dad.” 

He dad frowns. 

“Don’t remind me. I’ll catch up with you later, Melissa.” He gives her a quick kiss on the cheek and heads out. She ducks her head and blushes.  _ Well that’s new.  _ He works to steer the spotlight off of himself, and waggles his eyebrows at her. 

“And what do we have there?”

She lightly smacks Stiles’ arm. 

“Shush. We’ve known each other longer than you’ve been alive.”

“Took you two long enough.” He snorts. 

“Hey, you don’t ask about mine and I won’t ask about yours.” She arches an eyebrow, and that shuts him right up. 

\- - -

Seven stitches later, he’s sitting on the bench in the parking lot, waiting for his wolves. Because of course they both show up. Derek gets out to open the back door for him. 

“And they say chivalry is dead.” Stiles sighs dramatically, throwing the back of his hand over his forehead. Once he’s situated, they head back to the loft. “So I’m looking to get this all over in one day. My dad knows, Melissa suspects, and I don’t want the rest of the pack finding out through rumor. They need to hear it from us. Besides, I’m done sneaking around. Now that I know Dad won’t shoot either of you, I feel like the hardest part is past us.”

“But that gives you barely any time for your presentation.” Stiles can hear the smirk in Peter’s voice. 

“Oh, har har.” Stiles mocks. “My Dad was just yanking my chain.” He can see Derek’s pout. “And seriously? You guys are millionaires. And the older ones.  _ And  _ you’re werewolves.  _ You’re  _ taking care of  _ me.  _ If anyone needs to make a presentation, it’s not the barely-legal human. You think I do all these sexual flavors out of love? Please.”

“Are you calling us your sugar daddies?” Peter asks, amusement laced in his question.

“You? Definitely. Derek’s more of a sugar step-brother.”

“Keep up with that smart mouth and I’ll punish you when we get home.” Peter warns with a growl. 

“Spank me, Daddy.” Stiles jokes, chuckling. But wait- did he? He did. Peter said ‘home’. He’s always referred to it as ‘the loft’ before. And now it’s home. He feels affection swell in his heart.  _ Home.  _ He actually has to swallow past the lump in his throat as tears prick at his eyes. He’s just so damn  _ happy.  _

“Stiles?” Derek asks curiously. Stiles clears his throat. 

“I’m fine. Just happy.” His voice wavers with emotion. Without looking, Derek takes a hand off the wheel and reaches back to give Stiles’ knee a squeeze. 

“Me too.” He whispers. 

Peter turns to give Stiles a warm smile. The way his Adam’s apple bobs tells Stiles that he isn’t speaking because he doesn’t want to undermine his stoic persona. Stiles smiles back at him. 

\- - -

“What the fuck happened to you, Stilinski?” Jackson says, eyeing Stiles as he walks into the loft. Lydia comes in after him. 

“Stiles! What on  _ earth?”  _ She reaches out to brush her fingers against his jaw, then frowns at his newly stitched cut. “This bruise is old, but that cut is fresh. What happened?”

Leave it to Lydia to notice things like this. He was  _ going  _ to write off the cut as part of the kidnapping incident. 

“Sit,” He tells both of them. “I’m not telling the story more than once. Let’s wait for everyone to arrive.”

Scott, Allison, and Isaac aren’t far behind them. Isaac and Allison are holding hands, while Scott trails behind them. He might as well have emoji hearts popping out of his eyes, the way he looks at the pair. His brows furrow when he sees Stiles. 

“Dude! What gives?” Stiles holds up a hand to silence him, which only shows off the bruises on his wrists. “Did someone  _ tie you up?” _ He grabs Stiles’ forearm and a look of intense concentration falls over his features. 

“Don’t worry about it, man.” Stiles says lightly. “Derek already took care of it. Can’t feel a thing!” 

Scott doesn’t look convinced.

“Do I need to hurt someone?”

“It’s long past that point, bro. Go sit. I’ll fill everyone in at once. There’s Cheetos.”

“Sweet!” Scott follows Allison and Isaac to the living room, and snatches the bowl from Jackson.

Erica and Boyd are the last ones to arrive. Erica’s hair is slightly frazzled, and Boyd has a smear of lipstick on his chin. She winks at Stiles on the way by, not bothered in the least by the state of his face. Boyd gives him a calculated look, and Stiles pointedly rubs his own chin, until Boyd gets the picture and scrubs the lipstick away. 

Once they’re all settled in the living room, Stiles walks over to stand with Derek and Peter, who are lounging in front of the television, across the couch and gathered chairs. Derek is standing, legs parted shoulder-width, with his arms crossed. His alpha power stance. Peter is leaning against the wall, picking at his nails. 

“So!” Stiles rubs his hands together. “As you can see, I had a little altercation yesterday, no big deal, but we have a full-disclosure policy in this pack.”

He tells them the basics of what had happened. That it hadn’t been pretty, but Derek and Peter did what they had to. He sees Scott’s mouth go tight when he says that all five men had been killed, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“That explains the jaw and the wrists,” Lydia says when he’s done. “Now tell us about the cut on your forehead.” She arches a brow at him. 

“Uh, yeah… so, that.” He chews his lip, suddenly shy. He looks at Derek, who has a blush creeping up his face, but keeps his stance firm. 

“Ha!” Allison exclaims, And holds her hand out to Lydia. Lydia, looking very put out, digs her wallet out of her purse and pulls out three $100 bills. 

“Hey! What’s going on?” Stiles yells indignantly, seeing that he’s obviously been the butt of a bet. Allison just grins and snatches the money. 

“You’re banging Derek.” She says, matter-of-factly. Stiles gapes at her. 

“What? Don’t be ridiculous!” Scott sounds outraged on Stiles’ behalf. “Stiles isn’t  _ gay,  _ he’s been in love with Lydia since like the fourth grade!”  

Which,  _ embarrassing.  _ Just because everyone knows it doesn’t mean it’s something that’s ever publicly  _ mentioned.  _ He plays it off as cool as he can. 

Looking at Lydia, he says, “You’re most certainly the only woman who I’ll ever love, my beautiful strawberry goddess,” with a wink. Jackson rolls his eyes. Scott, clearly not understanding, nods his head once with a smug look. Then-

“Wait.” 

He frowns. 

They patiently wait.

Then he gasps, scandalized. 

“So what was your side of the bet?” Stiles asks Lydia curiously, as if they’re having their own private conversation, and not standing in front of the entire pack. 

“That you were fooling around with Peter.” 

Peter flashes her a toothy grin, and Stiles actually laughs. 

“Why?”

“I saw passion scratches on your back a few weeks ago when you took your shirt off. I feel like Derek would be too much of a gentleman to leave such marks on you.”

Interesting. 

“Allison, give her the money back.”

_      “What?!”  _ Allison, Lydia, and Scott say at the same time. Allison in incredulity, Lydia with an air of gossipy surprise, and Scott in pure horror. Erica’s jaw drops, and she has the biggest grin on her face. 

“No one wins, cause I bagged ‘em both.” He hums and makes a face. “Well, I guess I win. Any questions?”

The pack is silent. 

“Yeah, I have a question,” Jackson pipes up. “What in the love-triangle, backwoods, incestuous fuck is this?” 

Peter and Derek growl in unison, and Jackson has the decency to pale a little. 

“It  _ isn’t _ a love triangle!” Stiles shouts, exasperated, throwing his hands up. Then he points at Allison, Isaac, and Scott.  _ “That  _ is a love triangle. Us?” He moves his thumb left and right, indicating the three of them. “It’s a ‘V’. A ‘V’! I’m the point. They aren’t connected!”

Peter and Derek have gravitated towards him, and each place a hand on one of his shoulders. 

“We’re both dedicated to Stiles.” Derek says. 

“And he is our  _ first  _ priority.” Peter adds, letting a growl mingle with his words. 

“So if anyone has anything else to say, air it out now. We won’t be discussing this again. You accept it, or you leave.” Derek finishes. 

Stiles feels warmth bloom in his heart for his wolves. His  _ mates. _ With them at his sides, he stands taller, feeling more confident. He arches an eyebrow at Jackson, daring him to continue. Jackson just huffs, crosses his arms, and looks away. The room is silent. 

“So,” Erica breaks the silence.  _ “were _ the scratches from Peter, or…?”

It breaks the tension. There are chuckles, and glances, and everyone relaxes. Scott still looks slightly confused, but that’s how he looks most of the time. 

“Good. Glad we got that out of the way!” Stiles says. “I know it’s not easy to accept a new mom, but I know we’re going to all get along  _ great.” _

Isaac snorts. Even Boyd smiles a bit. 

What a feeling this is. He feels like a weight he didn’t even realize was there has been lifted off of his chest. No more hiding, no more sneaking around. His pack knows, his dad knows, and the rest of Beacon Hills will get the memo before long. Because now that he has the freedom to do it? He’s going to be a  _ very  _ public lover. Kisses, dates, bopping ice cream cones on the nose, the whole nine yards. 

It’s gonna be the  _ best.  _


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to post the final chapter a day early. Enjoy 😊~

     With his closest friends and family privy to their relationship, it’s not long before the news spreads like wildfire. There’s only a week left of school, and the rumor mill is in full force. Stiles catches people looking at him, then whispering to their friends. He really couldn’t care less, and plays into each and every rumor. It only adds to the confusion. 

     After the final lacrosse practice that Coach Finstock required the seniors to be at, Stiles, Isaac, Boyd, Jackson and Scott are all changing in the locker room. Stiles pulls his shirt over his head and removes his pants, leaving him in the tight, black spandex boxer briefs that he exclusively wears now. Handprint bruises are visible on his hips. 

     “Hey, Stilinski, how much extra do charge them if they leave bruises while they’re fucking your ass?” One of the Juniors, Collin Hanover says, laughing derisively. Some of their teammates join in. 

     The wolves on either side of him bristle. Even Jackson looks affronted. Stiles opens his mouth to snark a response, but before he can say anything, Coach Finstock walks to Collin and smacks him upside the head. 

     “Don’t be jealous just because your not getting laid, Hanover.” He says. Collin’s ears turn pink. Coach turns to the rest of the team. “Does anyone  _ else  _ have anything to say about the fact that Stilinski is bagging twice as much tail than the rest of you?”

     Stiles snorts. The guys who had backed Collin duck their heads. 

     “That’s what I thought.” Then he turns to Stiles. “Stilinski! For the love of god, keep your love marks covered. Damn hormonal teens can’t control themselves.” He grumbles the last part under his breath, walking to his office and slamming the door behind him. 

     Stiles is stunned. Coach has never showed much inclination towards him, and it’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever done for Stiles personally. 

     One of the sophomores, Mason he thinks, leans towards him. 

     “For what it’s worth, I think  _ both  _ of your boyfriends are smoking hot.”

     Stiles immediately likes him.

     - - -

     Stiles’ Jeep breaks down the following day. Derek and Peter are only too eager to play chauffeur. So when he’s seen after class making out with Derek on Tuesday, and then Peter on Wednesday, he definitely gets some looks. 

     Peter has him leaned against the Camaro, bodies pressed flush, and is whispering naughty things into his ear. Stiles laughs and nips at his nose. 

     “I thought tall, dark, and handsome was your boy toy, Stiles.” Stacy, a girl from his chem class says as she walks by. She gives Peter an appraising look. Other students have stopped to blatantly eavesdrop. 

     “Oh! Derek gets me Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and every other Sunday. This big lug gets me for the rest of the week.” He turns back to Peter and gives him a filthy, open mouthed kiss. Stiles cracks an eye open just in time to see Stacy blush furiously and walk away at quickly. 

     - - -

     The pack goes to Jungle to celebrate the last day of school. It’s a Friday, and graduation is on Sunday, so they have a lovely buffer day inbetween to recuperate from any partying. 

     Derek and Peter sneak him alcohol the whole night. Not enough to get drunk, but just enough for a delicious buzz to run through his body. He sways back and forth on the dance floor, in the same outfit he wore two months ago. Derek grinds him from behind, while Peter crowds him from the front. 

     Things quickly get heated, and they’ve only been there half an hour before Stiles is dragging them into a shadowed corner and blowing them both, one after the other. Then Derek returns the favor while Peter goes to break up a fight between Erica and a woman who made the grave miscalculation of slapping Boyd on the ass. 

     With the edge taken off, they manage to last another hour before the Camaro tires are squealing in the parking lot, flying towards the loft. 

     - - -

     Graduation is great. There’s not a dry eye in the entire lacrosse field, where the ceremony takes place. Or, mostly. Stiles has managed not to cry so far. After the ceremony is over, he runs to his dad and is enveloped in a crushing hug. 

     “Your mom would have been so proud, Son,” His dad says with a wavering voice. And there are the tears. They spill out of his eyes and down his cheeks, as that familiar ache settles itself in his chest. 

     “I know, Dad. I know.” He says thickly. Then he sniffs and pulls back to wipe his face. “She  _ is _ proud, Dad. Proud of both of us.” And he looks at Melissa, who’s standing nearby, doting on Scott, her new engagement ring glinting in the afternoon sun. 

     John follows his gaze, and smiles fondly. Then Derek and Peter are picking through the crowd, before wrapping Stiles up in his second and third best hugs of the day. 

     The photographer comes over to them, and asks to take their picture. Derek is to Stiles’ left, and to his right is his dad, and then Peter. They all sling their arms over each other’s shoulders and grin. 

     After she snaps a picture, she pointedly looks at the Sheriff’s new engagement band, and then at the attractive man next to him. 

     “I didn’t realize you’ve gotten engaged, Sheriff!” She says. “You make a lovely couple. Would you like me to take one of just the two of you?”

     John’s face turns red, and Stiles lets out a hearty laugh. Peter lets go of John to walk around him and grab Stiles by the waist. 

     “Actually, this is my Stilinski of choice,” He says, chest puffing out. The photographer’s blush is even deeper than his father’s, and she mumbles out an apology before making a quick escape. 

     - - -

     It’s moving day. Stiles is excited, nervous, giddy, and terrified, all at once. 

     “You’re stinking up the Jeep, pet.” Peter says, reaching over to grip his thigh. 

     “It’s just… this feels like a big step.” He admits. “What if you guys realize that I’m insufferable to live with?”

     “Stiles, you’ve practically been living with us for the last month. We already  _ know  _ you’re insufferable.”

     Stiles squawks and slaps his arm playfully. Peter chuckles, and then continues with a more serious tone. 

     “We’re going to have disagreements, we’re going to get on each other’s nerves, and we’re going to have fights about trivial things. Then we’ll have amazing make up sex, and figure it out afterwards.”

     Stiles looks over, seeing a sly grin on his face. 

     “Well when you put it like that…”

     They pull into the building’s parking lot, and get out. Derek is right behind them in the Camaro. 

     “We’ll start bringing things in,” he says. “You go inside.”

     Stiles does as he’s told, knowing that his wolves will be better off without him. They’re able to lift a stupid amount of boxes as if they were filled with feathers.

     He walks into the loft, and looks around.  _ Home,  _ he thinks, and can’t help the soft smile that adorns his face. The loft has been fully renovated, and it’s a thing of beauty. 

     There’s a short, wide hall in front of the door that opens to a large, open space. To the left is their state-of-the-art kitchen, and to the right is the massive living room. There’s two large couches, a loveseat, and three recliners. Side tables and two coffee tables are placed strategically. Across from the furniture is the mounted 60” TV that Peter and Stiles had convinced Derek that they needed. The sound system is a thing of beauty. The floors are all hardwood, but there’s a ridiculously large memory foam rug mat that covers a decent portion of the living room floor. 

     Straight ahead is a huge dining table that seats twenty. Stiles is making it his mission to have a pack dinner once a month, and plans to include his dad, Melissa, Chris, and Jordan as well. The adults have become closer to the pack these last few months. Stiles has an inkling that Derek has considered them all pack for a while now. 

     He takes a right down the short corridor directly after the loft entrance, and then opens the double doors at the end, walking into the library. It still takes his breath away, every time. The shelves are stocked with an assortment of books: old and new, bestiaries and encyclopedias, books about all things supernatural, and even a section of classic fiction. He walks over to the several shelves that have been cleared for his growing collection. He can’t wait to spend countless evenings in here, absorbing all of the knowledge he possibly  can. 

     He hears Derek and Peter walking through the loft, and leaves the library to find them. He follows them upstairs, to the spare bedroom, which has been turned into an office, specifically for him. They really are too generous, but they also wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

     Peter’s room becomes the new spare bedroom, as he’s moved into the master bedroom to be with Stiles and Derek. Stiles is thrilled that he gets to spend every night between the two wolves for the foreseeable future. The thought goes straight to his dick. 

     Derek and Peter have put down the boxes they were carrying, and go to leave the room. Stiles stands in the doorway, a mischievous glint in his eye. He can see their nostrils flare, and the change in their stances show that they’re quickly on board. 

     “Let’s finish unpacking later. I want to break in the new bed!” He takes off down the hallway, into the master bedroom, and leaps on the bed. Derek and Peter aren’t far behind. 

     Yesterday, Derek had what was probably the world’s largest bed delivered to the loft. Stiles had felt like a kid on Christmas. Seriously, the thing was  _ huge.  _ He suspects that most of the edge space will go unused, as they love curling themselves around him when they sleep, but he’s thinking of other ways to use it. 

     “So much space to do activities!” He squeals, stretching his arms out and purposely rubbing his body all over the sheets, scenting them shamelessly. As expected, it sets his wolves off immediately. 

     What happens next could safely be considered a mauling, of the  _ best  _ kind. 

     - - -

     When training finally starts at the academy that fall, he finds that his reputation has preceded him. Most everyone knows about his two older boyfriends, and those who don’t  _ definitely _ do by the end of the day. The scene they made in the parking lot, where he had shamelessly made out with both of them  _ might  _ have had something to do with it. But honestly, who really knows how these things happen?

     His drill sergeant had intended on knocking them down a few pegs on the first day so they’d fall into line. As the mate of an Alpha  _ and  _ a Left Hand, Stiles finds that it simply isn’t his style. 

     So when the sergeant calls the most confident, yet most green-looking recruit to the front of the class for a ‘friendly’ spar, Stiles spends no time flattening him. The lessons he had taken with Chris over the summer have most definitely paid off. 

     The sergeant goes at him again, and this time gives it his all. To Stiles’ surprise, it takes him almost forty-five seconds to best the man the second time around. Color him impressed. 

     - - -

     The academy is hard on his wolves. It’s four months of being gone five days a week. Weekends are spent in the oversized bed, and  filled with long hours touching, scenting, and snuggling, among other things.

     They always insist on picking him up, and Stiles would be lying if he said he didn’t absolutely love the way they encompassed him when he reached the Camaro, framing him between their bodies. There's always mixed reactions, from  _ ‘aww’,  _ to  _ ‘disgusting!’, _ and it’s usually the less desirable reactions that spurs Stiles to give them each a filthy kiss, just to rub it in the asshole’s face. 

     Most of his classmates are on board with his lifestyle though, and every weekend when he comes back with various scratches, bruises, and bite marks, they’ll jibe him good-naturedly and ask for details. They all got a particular kick out of it the third week in when Stiles had stripped for the showers, sporting a love bite on either ass cheek, clearly belonging to two differently shaped mouths. 

     He graduates first in his class, and makes it a point to let Chris know that without his training, he would have most definitely only been second. 

     - - -

     John and Melissa tie the knot that following spring. Stiles has been working on the police force for a few months now, working alongside Jordan. After Jordan, he’s the youngest deputy that the force has seen in almost twenty years. No one’s surprised, though. Sheriff’s son, remember?

     Stiles is ecstatic for the wedding. He helps his dad and Melissa plan it, and when money starts to become an issue, he waves his hand, telling them it’s covered and not to argue. 

     True, he’s on a deputy-in-training salary, but he also has access to the Hale fortune. He felt uncomfortable using it at first, but at their insistence, he’s gotten used to spending their money.  _ His  _ money too, he has to remind himself. 

     As a wedding gift, Scott and Stiles present their parents with adoption papers during the reception. Melissa has to excuse herself to fix her makeup, and his dad hugs them both fiercely, tears streaming down his face. 

     “Dude, we’re brothers now, for real!” Scott exclaims. 

     “Hell yeah,” Stiles replies, his face split with a wide grin. 

     - - -

     It’s a lazy Sunday in August that finds Stiles stretched across the bed, a Hale on either side of him. The three of them had laid down for an afternoon nap after fucking Stiles stupid, and then taking a shower (where against all odds, they had fucked him even stupider).

     Stiles looks to his left, where Peter is gently snoring. His back is to Stiles, pressed flush against his side. Then he turns his head to the right, and kisses the top of Derek’s head, where it rests on his chest. 

     His mind wanders to where he was almost two years ago, dealing with the aftermath of the Nogitsune. Some nights, he feared that he was never going to move past it, and was destined to live a small, sad, broken life.

     Look at him now.

     He has two beautiful, devoted men in his bed, a successful career, a woman to call Mom, more money than he can fathom, and a pack to call family. He never knew life could be so rewarding. 

     The years roll by, and as cheesy as it might sound, the only word he can sum up his life with is blessed. 

 

     He doesn’t even need to count his fingers to know it’s true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is! I just want to say a huge THANK YOU to anyone who took the time to read this. It was such a pleasure to write, and even more of a pleasure to share. Your support, whether it be comments, kudos, or hits, truly does mean the world to me.
> 
> That being said, we aren't done with these boys! I will MOST definitely be adding one-shots to this series in the future. So if that's something you're interested in, be sure to subscribe to the series 😉
> 
> I have one more multi-chap fic that I'll probably be publishing sometime later this month, but other than that I will most likely be on a short hiatus. Sterek Bingo is coming up for the month of May, and I have a LOT of editing to do. These damned fics refuse to be anything less than 20k words!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, feel free to head on over to my Facebook page and say hi 😊 It’s such a great way to further interact with all of you wonderful people ❤️💕
> 
> https://www.facebook.com/HakeberHooligan/


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